


How to Win a Lifetime Achievement Award for Services to Television (and how not to)

by GaryOldman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Human AU, M/M, TV show host rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman
Summary: Crowley hosts a late night comedy talk show. Aziraphale hosts a feel good morning talk show.When Crowley is asked to present Aziraphale with a lifetime achievement award, everything goes a bit skew-whiff.-----Normally when I don’t get something that everyone else seems to be mad on my first point of call is the wonderful world of the internet, but we’ve had a falling out you see, the internet and I. Despite my many years as late night show host meets investigative journalist meets comic genius meets veritable sex god (though Wikipedia only acknowledges the first of these accomplishments, despite my many attempts at editing the listing) they have turned on me.I’m a gif. And a meme.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 152
Kudos: 163





	1. I'm a meme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cellsinterlinked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellsinterlinked/gifts).



It’s late - or early if you’re one of those pedantic wankers with nothing better to do than correct my late night musings on Twitter. ‘Oh sir, actually I think you’ll find it’s rather early’. Shut up Barnaby747X9. 

Not that I’ve been Tweeting tonight. No thank you. 

In fact I think I’ve skipped the step of losing my mind that requires shitposting to the internet for attention and b-lined straight to watching morning talk shows. 

Yes, I’m wearing a custom tuxedo embroidered with golden snakes (because I can’t exactly wear it again once I’ve taken it off so I might as well get my money’s worth), and yes the closest thing I’ve had to action in a month is my mouth around this bottle of sinfully wine and YES I have wondered if this is how Britney felt circa 2007 but that pales to my viewing habits this evening (morning, whatever). 

It’s not even on TV. I’m streaming it. Online. On purpose. 

And do you know what, I don’t bloody get it. 

Normally when I don’t bloody get something that everyone else seems to be mad on my first point of call is the wonderful world of the internet, but we’ve had a falling out you see, the internet and I. Despite my many years as late night show host meets investigative journalist meets comic genius meets veritable sex god (though Wikipedia only acknowledges the first of these accomplishments, despite my many attempts at editing the listing) they have turned on me.

I’m a gif. And a meme. 

It’s uncalled for is what it is. Didn’t anyone ever tell them not to bite the hand that feeds you? Is a career of humiliating celebrities and reality stars and pointing out the farcical pointlessness of stardom not enough for them? Was it not me who gave them #Kardashiflans? Was mine heart not the birthplace of COVID10: BeiberFever?! Is that not enough for you people?

Not enough to win a lifetime achievement award at least.

BAH.

Look at the credits on this show - the bloody floor manager is called Sandalphon and I’m pretty sure the first AD is called Metatron, although what more could you expect from a show hosted by that guy? I’m more shocked there’s someone called Michael - apparently they swayed the ‘must be this pretentious to ride’ rule when they hired him. 

WatchMoviesIllegally.net has turned on me too - ‘are you still watching?’. Almost certain that if I click yes the whole sordid thing is going to be posted to Twitter and everyone will know. Clicking it anyway and if that does happen I’ll just say I really WAS being sordid about the whole thing because for some reason that’s not as bad as the truth of it. 

The truth being that this is very watchable. Almost as good as the evening I had planned (get drunk at an after party, come home early and bask in thirst tweets of my red carpet look - a tried and trusted good night). And frustrating as it is I think that maybe I could possibly understand what the world and their aunt sees in this stuffy little man. He’s quite… sweet. 

Not lifetime achievement award winning sweet but whatever. 

I haven’t even finished a single bottle of wine. What’s that about? Still feeling bloody drunk enough to mouth his stupid little ‘Good Morning, my dear’ at the telly as the cheesy little intro plays. Stupidly wholesome. Annoyingly wholesome. That’s a point - if this guy is meant to be so nice and sweet what was all that about earlier? 

———

Fuck it all. Fell asleep. In front of the telly. They’ve either just started a segment called punching trees whilst an American woman shouts my name or Anathema is at the door. 

Weirdly, it’s the latter. 

“Anthony!” she’s yelling. Hate it when she calls me Anthony. Pretty sure I put it in her contract she had to call me ‘your liege’ but the lawyer might have taken that one out. Not going to fire her anyway, and she knows it. 

And that has very little to do with the fact that she’s one of the few talent agents willing to put up with me. 

“Anathema, darling,” I say in my most charming of voices whilst simultaneously wondering if I look like shit. 

“You look like shit,” she says confirming my worst suspicions. 

“Wonderful,” I say and make a mental note to buy silk cushions for the sofa in case that happens again. 

“Where’s your phone?” 

“In the safe”

“Okay good,” which is actually the worst thing someone could say to that. Go on, try and think of something worse - you can’t. 

Not sure if she came here just to mess with my head or actually get some work done, so I let her in. Not that you could tell from the look of it but I’d gather she’s spent the last 7 hours working through the night trying to make the whole incident disappear. She might just want to crawl into the safe herself. 

“Do you often sleep in £3000 suits?” she asks and I’m insulted.

“It’s £3800 actually Miss Device,” 

“You know the channel is going to have something to say about this,” 

And I’m confused because I’m pretty sure I paid for it? Unless there’s a willy embroidered on the back that I didn’t notice, but even then I’ll just say I did it on purpose. 

“Not your suit,” and I don’t love the way she can read every stupid thought in my head, but it does save us a lot of time. 

“What time is it?” 

“Seven thirty,” 

“Lucifer Almighty, I didn’t realise there were two of those in a day,” 

“Ha ha” she says very blankly. “Go freshen up - you have fourteen minutes,”

I love it when Anathema times me like this. I feel like a very powerful toddler. One of the rich ones with a nanny who know they can get away with anything because mother has contacts in the arts. Except I’m the toddler and the mother.

Trying to shower whilst deciding if I’d rather be Lady Chatterley or Anna Karenina though to be honest I haven’t read either one and the movies were confusing. I was at it for exactly twelve minutes (I know because Anathema so kindly played her favourite game of screaming at me through a door) when I settled on being either as long as there was a handsome man and a good amount of scandal. 

When I came back out to the lounge it was at least starting to get light outside which was something and Anathema had even brewed some coffee. What a darling. 

“So tell me what happened,” she said. What a cow. 

“Did you not see the footage?” I asked as someone who did not see the footage. Nothing outside of low res gifs anyway. 

“Not everything was totally clear, which is good,”

“Is it?” I asked thinking of the worldwide trending ‘NGKGate’.

“If we can get our spin out there as quickly as possible, we might be able to ease the situation,” 

“Ease it how?” 

“Just tell me what happened and have faith,” 

“Blah” 

So I just tell her everything. Asked to present an award, yada yada. Thought I’d get to meet David Attenborough yada yada. Flirting with the news anchor from Channel 7 yada yada. Taken backstage, told I had to present the bloody award to that soft edged agony aunt, realise it’s all a stunt to humiliate me, spiral, go on stage, decide to go full Crowley on him and fluster him by cranking up the flirting but it backfiring awfully, blood rushing to my ears, an audience of people I have made a career of laughing at laughing at me and that pale haired prat giving me a smug little smile like he knew exactly what he was doing and now my career is over… yada yada. 

“He ruffled you,” 

“A bit,” 

“What did he say?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” 

“The mics didn’t pick it up. We hear your classic line of “Nice bow tie, I think it would look better on my floor” - which, by the way we need to work on that whole thing - and then he whispers something to you, you turn as red as your hair and say ‘Ngk’. So what did he say?” 

Now don’t get me wrong, I trust Anathema. Decidedly more than I trust myself even. She has a key to this place and still insists on knocking. She’s the kind of person you can leave your laptop open around and know she won’t read your emails. She’s the only person who knows my safe combination (including myself most of the time). I can only assume she has no friends considering the amount of time she spends chasing after me so she doesn’t really have anyone to tell and hates the internet as much as I do now. 

But… 

“Not sure. Blacked out I think,” 

“Really?” 

If I had one tip for anyone it would be to get a reputation as a bad liar, because boy oh boy does it pay off. 

“Not a clue,” 

I’m pretty sure she believed me at least. 

“Fine,” 

“So what’s the damage?” 

“Well. I’m no prophet” (though I think sometimes she says things like that to hide the fact that she definitely is) “but I think we can get through this. The producers are going to be pissed - this is a big hit for the brand persona for sure and I think it’s going to be a few months of hard work but you know fame. In a week some other idiot is going to disgrace themselves and people will forget all about this,”

“Disgraced?” 

“It’s a turn of phrase,”

“No it’s not,”

“Not really, no,” she stood up, a phone in each hand and ready to go. “Go get some rest. Be at the studio no later than 4 and I’ll catch you up,”

“Right. Thanks, Anathema,” I say feeling both better and worse than I did before she got here. My wine doesn’t seem to be on the coffee table so she probably cleaned it up which is both very nice and very annoying. 

“I’ll let you get back to your… TV show,” and she turned on her heel with the jauntiest step like someone just told her Birkenstocks were in fashion. 

I’m flabbergasted - astounded. The horror. The sick perverse pleasure she gained in that. I should fire her. Although it’s probably crueler to make her clean up this mess first so I’ll keep her around for now. Can’t believe her.

Of course I didn’t HAVE to go back to the couch and turn the show on - on actual television for a change of pace - but considering this episode is live I’m certain the TV license people who judge what I spend my days watching will understand. I’m simply doing research. If he says something this morning I’ll definitely have to say something this evening. Research.

Very soothing research. 

But he didn’t say a thing. I kept expecting him to - kept looking for those moments where that sly bastard grin would come back and he’d turn to camera and shout ‘GOTCHA’ but he didn’t. He did a gardening segment, and read one of his favourite poems to the visiting kids. He thanked his viewers for the award, and I was sure he’d allude to it, but he didn’t. He just said that the greatest achievement wasn’t an award, but getting to know them all, and he only sounded bloody genuine. 

So maybe I’m tired, maybe I’m disgraced and facing a future as an ex-late night host who got his reputation ruined by a human Christmas tree ornament but you know what? This Aziraphale bloke seems alright.


	2. I'm amazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "T-minus-2 minutes until we go live.
> 
> I have no idea what I’m going to say or do.
> 
> I vow to any deity who is listening that I will never wing anything ever again."

They say with marriage counseling you should start before you have to, and now that I’m in that situation I have to agree with them. It’s hard to picture a time I might trust again, but I’m willing to try, which I can only hope is enough. 

All of this to say I’m back on Twitter. 

Ana thought it was a good idea, and I am nothing if not a people pleaser. I also really missed the thirst tweets. Nothing beats a hangover quite like browsing the corner of the internet dedicated to sharing pictures of your arse. 

I’ve also gotten very good at sensing The Gif from the very top of the image so I can scroll away from it. 

One weird thing though… he’s decided to follow me. Not really sure what to do with that. Brit420xo has a theory that involves a big secret gay love affair, as if I’d ever be secret about my love affairs. BruntwilkREX thinks it’s all a scheme to get attention to something, though they’re not sure what (which… I mean, I don’t think we’re doing a very good job in that case). 

Lots of @s in my mentions asking what he whispered to me.

…

Nope.

Not dwelling on that. I have a show to do. 

It’s twenty minutes before we go live and people are going bananas. I haven’t seen it this bad since I made a member of royalty cry on live TV. Our studio manager, Dagon, is rotating props like a ghost in a found footage movie, and B on camera is literally buzzing as they sneak around backstage with the GotchaCam. 

I like these moments best, because people leave me alone. Not sure if they think I have some kind of process I need to get into, but literally no one talks to me. Except maybe the assistant producer, who is some dirt nosed kid who’s apparently related to the head of the channel. He’s alright though. Always gets me the snacks I want. 

Today’s guest is the lead actress of a truly awful looking horror movie. She was big way back when, and all the oldies seem to love her. I usually don’t watch films, especially films people recommend, ESPECIALLY films I have to watch for my job, but this one looked so monumentally awful I just had to indulge. And honestly? I love it. 

Yes, the plot about witch hunting is bizarre, and you could easily end up in hospital if you took a shot every time nipples are mentioned, but she’s brilliant and it’s just great fun. This is all actually very annoying for me, because it makes my job a hell of a lot harder.

There’s a monitor in my dressing room which shows the feed off the GotchaCam. The most exciting thing we’ve seen tonight is a soundie picking their nose. I truly do only work with the best. 

I don’t know where Ana is but she busted in here at 4 on the dot and gave me a big speech. Don’t mess it up, Anthony. Don’t lose your nerve Anthony. Blah blah. 

They think the viewing figures are going to be high so… no pressure. 

Oh well, worst comes to worst I can just get my arse out again. 

I need to stop thinking about my own arse. I’m certain the majority of the population doesn’t think about their own rear this much, and it can’t be healthy. Though, granted the majority of the population does not have… stop it, you narcissist. I do need help. Maybe I should just make this episode a plea for help? That would annoy the production crew, which is almost reason enough to burn my whole career to the ground. 

——

T-minus-2 minutes until we go live.

I have no idea what I’m going to say or do.

I vow to any deity who is listening that I will never wing anything ever again.

———

Okay, so that didn’t go as expected. 

Maybe I should wing everything all the time? Ana is always on at me to prep more but I think this is proof that the opposite is true and that I may actually be a god of improv and that I should give up trying. Maybe everything is actually going to be okay and I’m going to win an Oscar for Best TV Show Host - the first one because they’ll make the category just for me because I’m so brilliant. 

Or maybe it’s these leather trousers projecting their power onto me. 

Ana’s in my dressing room. I can tell because the door is shut and I specifically remember throwing it open with dramatic flair at curtain call. Not really sure if I can face her right now. I can’t be held accountable for my own actions, and she’s going to try. 

Considering fucking off to the pub in what I’m wearing, but Madam Tracey has just caught up with me and cornered me in the corridor. 

“Anthony darling, that was a real laugh,” and I have to say I agree with her. I haven’t had that much fun with a guest in years. Especially one that didn’t storm off or cry half way through. “You know, when they asked us to do press for the film we were all a bit tentative to come on here, but this was a hoot” 

“Well, don’t go spreading that too widely. I have a brand to rescue here,” and maybe it was a bit off brand to give her a kiss on the cheek when she left, but the GotchaCam wasn’t around so I’m fine. 

Before I could creep off, the door to my dressing room is thrown open and Ana is there staring at me over her thick spectacles and suddenly I feel like a child caught in the cookie jar. 

“Should I have gotten my arse out, or was that okay?”

“You’re the only one of my clients who would think to ask that, you know,” 

“You don’t have other clients,” I brush her off, even though sometimes I suspect she might. That definitely doesn’t make sense though, considering the world does revolve around me and all. “…So?” 

“You were fantastic” and honestly, fuck me for caring what she has to say. I think my sphincter just dropped two inches in relief. 

“That’s a shame,” I say, but I know she knows I’m lying. “….and Twitter?” 

My estranged lover, has she turned against me? Is she spreading rumours about the things I said to her in hushed tones to the neighbours at a cocktail party? Does she wear my old clothes just to remember my scent? Is she fighting for full custody of the kids? 

Not sure who the kids are in this scenario…

Ana is talking about something or another, but that doesn’t seem important. Hmm…

“The DMs!” I declare. 

“Excuse me?” 

“The children are the DMs”

“What are you talking about?” 

“…Never mind. What are you talking about?”

“You’re trending in the UK. Clips are already making their way to YouTube. Top news article is no longer NGKGate but some boring crap about the viewing figures,”

“Which clips?” I ask, a little hesitant. Frankly I don’t remember a thing that happened out there… 

Ana pushes her tablet towards me. It’s loaded up with a pre-buffered video clip. It’s titled “AJ Crowley does it with style”.

There I am, on my set. Big desk, throne, plants all in the background. I always feel weird about looking at myself on screen. I know it’s me, but it’s just a bit wrong. Sort of like I’m Peter Pan and he’s my shadow sewn haphazardly onto my own body. Me, but out of sync. I do look good though - a bit pale but it kind of contributes to the sexy vampire look so I’m not mad at it. The leather trousers are stealing the show, but that might be because of the weird backlight they’ve added to my bum. Did I request that? Or if there someone else on the crew just as obsessed with my arse as I am? 

“I know what you’re thinking,” I’m saying with a confidence I’m sure I didn’t have at the time. The audience is tense. “You’re wondering if I’m going to mention the elephant in the room? Will I divulge the news that everyone is dying to hear? Will I redeem or further disgrace myself? Will I ever recover?” 

This whole honesty shtick is a far cry from the usual brand, so it’s risky. But people are eating it up. They’re hanging on my every word, and the tension in the room is palpable even through the camera. Hell, I’m tense and I know how this whole thing ends. Certainly didn’t at the time, though. I suppose there’s a kind of power that comes from knowing you hold your whole life on the precipice, knowing you can drop it if you want. Show-Crowley is certainly feeling powerful, because his hips are swaying like he doesn’t have a backbone. 

“And to that I say…” 

The room, the audience, Ana, and my sphincter all tense in perfect unison. 

“Ngk” 

Cheers erupt - applause - laughter - I can see the look on my own face as I relax. 

“Now, I know you all rely on me to be immovable, eloquent and biting, and I let you down. But, what’s a girl to do? So, dear audience, I’m here to make up for it. I have a message for our darling friend out there…”

I look into the camera, and it’s like I’m making eye contact with myself, and I hate it. Weird eyes, I have, and the stage lighting makes them look yellow and snakeish, but my mouth is turned into a naughty little grin, so much so that even I want to undress me and take me to bed. 

“Your place or mine?” 

The clip cuts out. I’m pretty pleased with that. Lots of views. Lots of comments. JeremyBehr13 says “I was straight before I watched this”. AlfonzoP3rez says “I always knew our king would prevail”. BettyLettyKetty says “first”. She wasn’t. 

“I’m great,” I say to Ana. 

“Yes, well done,” 

“And you liked the nipple segment?” 

“Yes, Anthony. We loved the nipple segment,” 

“Who knew it would be so easy to distinguish celebrities by their nipples?” 

“Quite. Though I don’t think it was entirely necessary to put yourself in there four times… though I suppose Madam Tracey seemed to enjoy herself,” 

And Twitter, my darling, she enjoyed it too. My dearest one, how did we ever fight? We were made for each other, you and I. Without you there is no me. Without you I am a shell of a man. #GuessThatNip is trending. And the mentions! “@ThatCrowley waters my crops.” “Wish @ThatCrowley would take ME back to his place” “@ThatCrowley” followed by a gif of a goat lapping up water, which I can only assume in a compliment. 

Hell, my sphincter is almost too relaxed. 

———

Yesterday’s show is the most watched of the year so far, so everyone is bringing me snacks. There’s also a heap of fan mail in my dressing room, including an embroidered wall hanging that reads “your place or mine” (…how does anyone have the time to do that in a night?!) and a framed painting of my own nipple. 

Ana’s got the day off today because she’s not a team player, but that also means I’m free to browse the internet in peace whilst eating this assortment of handcrafted chocolate penises gifted by YummyNaughtyTreats.com with a note “Thanks for being our favourite naughty treat”. Not a bad life. 

Wouldn’t mind someone to talk to though, I guess. 

UGH of course someone has decided it’s the time to knock on my door, whilst my mouth is too full of chocolate to tell them to fuck off, and now they’re coming in and I have to talk to them. Great. 

It’s that kid. What is he… twenty? I hate young people. All cheerful with their lives ahead of them. Ugh. 

“AJ,” he smiles in an annoyingly likable way. “You have a second?” 

Like all good producers, he doesn’t wait for a response before coming in and sitting on my sofa. 

“Penis?” I offer him the box of chocolates. To his credit, it doesn’t alarm him at all, and he takes one. “What’s up?” 

“The head of the channel loved yesterday’s show,” 

“That’s your dad, right?” and he squirmed. Interesting. Definitely going to dig more on that later. 

“Kinda,” he says. “Anyway, the producers has an idea and we wanted to run it by your first,” 

That’s just producer code for ‘Your manager said there’d be hell to pay if we didn’t tell you about this before we did it, but we’re going to do it anyway’.

“You want more nipples?” 

“Er… not… not just yet,” 

I grab another handful of penises and throw them in my mouth. Maybe the eye contact was a little unnecessary but I’m still riding yesterday’s high. 

“Eh… Well, we were thinking of… inviting Aziraphale onto the show… as a guest” 

Which is certainly one way to make a guy choke on his mouthful of dicks. 

Do not ngk. Do not ngk. Do not ngk. 

“Ngk” 

Very good, you penis chomping idiot. 

“To what end?” 

“Ratings, I suppose. Your whole deal is making polite people feel uncomfortable, so why not the most polite guy on telly? They think we can cash in on this,”

And I get their point, I really do. Honestly, I don’t even know why this is weird, and I really should be jumping at this. This is my chance to regain power. This is my chance for a lifetime achievement award. But I just don’t know. 

“I don’t have a say in this, do I?” 

The kid shrugs. 

“Not really. We’re going to contact his people tomorrow” 

“No,” falls out of my mouth, much to both of our surprise. “Let me reach out,” 

“You sure?” and I can’t tell if that’s a ‘you sure you want to?’ or a ‘you sure you’re up to this’ because really why wouldn’t I be up to this? This is my job. Why don’t I feel up to this?! And the answer to both is no. The whole thing feels like I’m dangling on that precipice again, but this time I’m not the one in charge. I’m just dangling… or whatever you do on a precipice. What even is a precipice? 

“Yeah, why not?” I say casually. 

“Cool, well I’ll let Hastur know,” 

“You do that,” 

I returned to reading my fan mail and the kid goes to leave, but I can feel him by the door. What’s this? There’s an atmosphere and it’s weird. Does he know that I’m not casual at all? Does he know I’m a disaster person? People aren’t supposed to know that.

“I just wanted to say, I loved your first show,” 

“Huh?” 

“Asking Questions. It was a great show. My mates and I loved it growing up,” 

“Er, thanks?” No one liked Asking Questions. That’s why they sold the show to this stinking heap of a channel and made it whatever this is. 

“You know, not that this isn’t great… but… yeah, it’s just great to be working with you,” 

Good kid. 

“This is awkward, but what’s your name?”

“Adam,” 

“Right, well… cheers Adam. It’s good to be working with you too,” 

And my mouth is full of chocolate dicks again before the door clicks shut.

—————

I need to follow him to DM him, which feels like quite a sordid thing to do at 2am. Should I wait? If I put it off too long Hastur’s going to be the one reaching out and that’s a recipe for disaster. Why do I care? Don’t want to think about that but definitely aware that it’s a big unthought something sitting in the back of my brain. 

Boo. 

It’s times like these I wish my brand was real. I wish I was braver and didn’t give a fuck. I wish I could slink off, hook up with some assortment of sinfully gorgeous women and hellishly handsome men, take drugs and rot away the part of my brain that seems to be responding to this? Bah, boo, ugh and ngk. 

I clicked the button.

I immediately closed the app.

Maybe I need to put my leather trousers back on for this? Or maybe things are just easier when you have an audience and you’re putting on a show? Fuckity fuckity NGK.

What do you even say in this situation? Has this situation ever existed before? How do I greet people normally? What am I even doing? 

Fuck it, I’m going to bed. 

————

Notification from Twitter:  
5.16am: Aziraphale has sent you a message. 

What is he doing awake at 5am? Why is he messaging me?! I’m meant to be the one messaging. What’s his game? 

I’m not going to open it, that’s my game. 

Of course I’m fucking opening it, I’m pathetic.

“Goodness me, what have I done to deserve the honour of being 1 of the 20 people you follow on here?”

He’s right to ask. He’s very lucky to be in the company he is in. Nick Knowles, TfL and a Brendan Fraser Fan Account are not to be scoffed at. 

It’s 10, so he’s probably live on air. And by probably, I mean definitely, because I’m watching him knit a jumper and talk about the importance of recycling. 

“Haven’t you heard? This whole situation is a publicity stunt”  
———

Notification from Twitter:  
12:13pm: Aziraphale has sent you a message. 

“And here I was thinking it was a very public secret love affair” 

I actually laughed at that. Is he funny? Is this stuffy little knitter funny? Do I need to get out more? 

“Nice jumper” 

“You watched the show?” 

“Purely research. My team is planning big things,”

“Oh yes, I can see that. You’re really out to defeat me, aren’t you?” 

“It’s just business,”

“Shame. I was hoping it was at least 20% pleasure”

Dearest Satan, save me. 

“…is this actually Aziraphale? Not some social media intern?” 

“Of course,”

“How can I know that for sure?” 

“I wouldn’t lie,”

“How can I know that for sure?”

“It wouldn’t be very kind,”

And let me ask you, myself, god, anyone… why the fuck do I believe him? 

“Come on my show”

“You know, you’re a lot more articulate on television” 

“I find it hard to believe you’ve ever watched my show. Isn’t it on after your bedtime?” 

“Consider it research” 

And fuck if there’s anything sexier than someone quoting yourself back at you I don’t know what it is.

Sexy? What the hell is wrong with me today?

“So you’ll do it?” 

“One condition”

“You want to finish filming before 7pm so you can get home for bed?” 

“Not quite. I want you to join me as a guest on my show first,” 

“You’re kidding?” 

“No, my dear. You see I’ve been thinking about it for a day or so now.”

“Really?” 

“Oh yes. You see, I couldn’t quite decide but it’s very simple really. Your place and mine.”

——————

I’m fucked.

I’m sincerely fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the only thing I need to get me to write is a new Taylor Swift album, who knew? 
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely comments so far! I'm really struggling to think of usernames for these random people on Twitter/YouTube so if you want to be mentioned in the fic I'm going to start using the names of commenters or something. 
> 
> Hope you're all well and safe and happy. 
> 
> :) x


	3. I'm not dwelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a guest on Good Morning, My Dear.

Of all the things that baffle me about this trench coat wearing turnip-head, this has got to take the biscuit. The whole bloody patisserie even. 

How the fuck can someone be as chipper as he is when they wake up at 4.30 am to go to work? 

I regularly end my days later than this. This is still yesterday as far as I’m concerned. I should have a very beautiful person sprawled up against my satin sheets at this time… or at least some people to drunk tweet at. This is torture. I’m just thankful that they sent a bloody car. Pretty sure I’d have crashed the Bentley into a mattress store for the mere promise of sleep, and my baby is much too precious for that. This car isn’t so bad. Not as nice as the Bentley, but it’s quiet and smooth and warm. 

Maybe I’ll just close -

——

Ugh, it’s still yesterday and ugh he met me at the car and…

And I was sleeping and he woke me up so tenderly I feel like I need to rob a corner shop just to get some of my edge back. Maybe even push over a display of nicely stacked cans and move the nudey magazines to the middle shelf with all the crossword books. 

This is going to be a long day. 

Literally, it’s 5am and I’m at work. I don’t even think I’m getting paid? Why did I agree to this? 

But actually, I’ve been doing a stellar job ignoring those kinds of questions this last week, which he hasn’t been making any easier. Every time I wake up there’s a new notification on Twitter. Even today, and might I remind you that I woke up at 4.30. In the morning. 

“Rise and shine, Anthony. Today’s the day”

“What happens if I sleep through this entire ordeal and leave you without a guest?”

“That wouldn’t be very kind,”

“I’m not kind,”

“Okay, Anthony,” 

I think I hate him. I’ve never hated anyone like this before and I hate everyone. He’s infuriating. 

But my curiosity has obviously gotten the best of the me, because here I am. Yes, curiosity is a sin isn’t it? Definitely not a virtue. Just ask the cats. 

My latest problem is that when I wake up, angry because it’s only 5am and I have already been rudely awoken twice today, I see him smiling down at me, looking straight up like a mix between sunrise and mischief and that’s the moment my brain decides to point out that this is the first time I’ve actually seen him since the awards night, which brings back a memory or two. 

“Ngk” is unfortunately the first thing I manage to say when I awake. I’m considering taking a vow of silence. 

“Good morning, dear,” not sure when we moved onto dear, but that’s sort of his thing and he doesn’t give me time to protest it anyway. “Are you ready?” 

“No,” 

“Brilliant. Come along then,” and he’s grinning ear to ear like this whole torturing me thing is enjoyable to him. He’s a sadist. Or a masochist. One of them, I get confused. 

He leads the way from the car park into the side door that leads to the studio, all the while chattering on like it’s not an ungodly hour and that we’ve met more than four disastrous times and that the last words he actually spoke into my ears before this day weren’t -

No. Not dwelling.

Part of me wants to ask if he meets all of his guests at the car, but despite the fact that it’s literally my job and essentially the only thing I’m good at, I can’t seem to ask the question. Just going to blame that on the hour and move along. Maybe ‘not dwelling’ is my new mantra? Should I get a tattoo - on my wrist of course, so I can see it all the time and remember not to dwell. Or would that just remind me of the things I’m not dwelling on?

“So this will be your dressing room for the day. I’ll give you some time to freshen up and then I’ll be back to give you the tour, okay?” 

“Sure” I said before slithering into the dressing room and curling up around the hot coffee that’s been left there for me. My vocabulary is a lot better later in the day, which really begs the question of who thought it was a good idea to put me on a morning talk show? 

Oh yeah.

Maybe if I sleep now I won’t make such a tit of myself? It’s much too bright in here though. It’s almost like the walls themselves are glowing. Every surface either seems to be a light or mirrored to reflect the light, and I’m half tempted to put some sunglasses on just to get through it. Next time I’m bringing black paint with me.

———

Next time? 

NOT DWELLING.

————

Hair and makeup was the weirdest experience I’ve ever had. Two people with pale hair, pale skin, and pale eyes waltzed in, poked and prodded at my face painlessly and left literally without a single word. My own hair and makeup team aren’t great - they speak to each other in some language I don’t know, obviously about me, and take great joy in brushing my hair a little to hard, poking my eyes a little too roughly. Even that is better than this.

I feel like I’m the pretty girl at the start of the sci fi film where the robots are preparing her for their master. I don’t much like where that analogy could go, but I’m the paragon of not dwelling, so it doesn’t even matter. It’s just words.

I’m not here to sit around and be a good little damsel though. I’m here to do a job - my job. Save my brand, get one up on this weirdly perfect human, win a lifetime achievement award and be crowned the patron saint of antagonising. 

Right. Antagonising. I can do that. 

He said he’d come and get me but that seems too well behaved and quite boring so I suppose I’ll just leave? Would rather nap but fat chance of that in this disco ball of a room.

The corridors here are so weird and bland. I really wouldn’t have suspected it to be as bare as it is considering the host’s evident proclivity for hoarding sentimental items on his set. I also have no idea where I’m going, which often leads to the best adventures. Or at very least, a bathroom.

———

In a turn of events I have found someone I dislike even more than the human mothball that is Aziraphale Fell. 

My list of people I don’t trust at first sight has a new addition, and thus reads:

People who wear scarves and T-shirts at the same time.  
People who ride horses for fun and not for travel.  
People who wear full cream/white outfits.  
People who go the gym.  
The people who go roller skating in tampon adverts.  
People who fly to Mexico to sit at the hotel pool.  
People who set their education on Facebook as ‘The School of Hard Knocks’  
People who have a union flag in their Twitter bio.  
The people who work for me.  
People who are nice and everyone seems to like for some reason.

And now, that fucking guy.

Granted, he could also come under the list of people who wear cream, and he definitely goes to the gym, and honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if he grew up on a horse farm or whatever they’re called, but damn. There’s something else that just sucks about that guy. 

From what I can deduce he’s some kind of exec producer? Not the head of the channel but maybe some kind of commissioner or big headed show runner. He definitely thinks he’s very important though, and he definitely doesn’t like Aziraphale and he definitely definitely doesn’t like me. 

I’d stumbled down some weird glowing Star Wars style spaceship corridor and happened upon voices. Did I follow those voices? Irrelevant. I happened upon them. Did I lurk around a corner and take chances peeking out like Scooby Doo? Also irrelevant. What is relevant were the two people talking. There was one man who I thought was very tiny until I realised that he was actually just next to an actual statue who happened to be moving. Literally, he could have been stood on a plinth and naked as the day he was born and I wouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Blah blah blah we’re very posh and good looking” they were saying. “What wonderful jawlines and stupid names we all have” 

I may be paraphrasing. Again, not important. The interesting part was the part I actually heard and didn’t just make up. 

“Is that going to work? She loves his show, doesn’t she?” Little Cook said to Big Cook.

“He’s on thin ice after the awards night”

Oops, that’s on me. Wait, is that good or is that oops? Seem like I should think that’s a good thing. Interesting to note that I don’t. 

“So that’s why you agreed to bring that other idiot on?” 

Excusez-moi?! 

And would you believe it, I gasped like a Victorian woman seeing the ankle of a younger woman in the presence of her husband. Which of course, alerted them to be lurking immediately. 

“Are you lost?” they said as they rounded the corner to see me peering. It was quite good of them to give me some kind of deniability considering the position I was stood in. The tall one was sneering at me, and I haven’t seen someone look at me with such a vicious expression since the last time I looked in the mirror.

“Immeasurably” which is basically always true for me in every spiritual, emotional and physical sense of the word. 

“The studio is that way,” the little one pointed back the way I came. 

I straightened up, wondering if I should play my odd stance as a back ache or stretch or something, but they were done with me. They walked away from me, back to talking about some inane bullshit. 

“Shall we go and look at ourselves in the mirror and think about how very rich we are?” 

“Oh yes, I need to reapply my human skin,” 

Blah blah, you get the drift. 

I’m being used as a pawn. I hate it when people try to use me as a pawn. I’m not pawn material. I’m the bishop at the very least, but probably the queen if we’re being fair. 

Frustratingly, I don’t actually know what I’m being used as a pawn for, and furthermore how I feel about the whole thing, which makes my next move basically impossible and is why I avoid chess. Everyone knows it’s all about Uno anyway.

Lost indeed. 

————

I found my host eventually, chatting with someone in the audience. It wasn’t my kind of chat either - the big, flashy, gets you in the magazines kind of chat (the best kind). It was small, tender, disgusting, heartfelt - ugh. She was crying and he offered her an honest to heck handkerchief and patted her hands. The very worst part of it all was that there weren’t even any cameras around - no GotchaCam picking up this on-brand moment to use as award-fodder. 

Desperately certain that I don’t want to get dragged into all that, I’m lurking in the background, staring at the absolute mess that’s the back of the flats that make up the set. 

At first I thought it was something cool like posters or signed pictures from the famous guests, or the crew’s old gum, but I am evidentially completely outside of my own realm of understanding. I think… I think they’re fanmail. 

I’ve never actually received fanmail, which is very shocking I know. Thirst tweets, yes, but you can’t hang those on a wall (and I’m pretty certain there’s no lifetime achievement award for best thirst trap, because else I’d already have it for my Halloween pictures last year). I’ve received a kind of fanmail, I suppose - they just weren’t from my fans. Instead they tend to be from the fans of my humiliated guests, asking me how I sleep at night for making such a wonderful young millionaire look a bit foolish on television. 

The walls here are covered though. 

Dear Azirafal  
Thak you for the birfday prezent. I shard the choclit with al off my friends. Billy likes the greeen ones best I like the red one brijit liked the blue but not the greeen. I had the best birfday evar. Thakyou  
Lots of lov  
Junaid

Dear Mr Fell  
I’m just writing to say that I have loved your show since I was a kid. I recently gave birth to my first child, and we’ve been watching your show together every day. It has really reminded me of all the good in the world, even when things get hard.   
Best wishes to you in all things. Thank you for the miracles.  
Love and appreciation,  
Ms Eliza Richards-Brown and little Dottie. 

Dear Azi,  
My teacher said we had to practice writing letters so I decided to write to you. He said we have to write to a friend but I said your everyones friend cus you say that on your show all the time so this still counts. If you write back Mr Murphy said hed give me top marks so I attached a stamp for you.  
My mum collects stamps so she picked it out for you. Its a christmas one because those are her favorites and she thought you’de appreciate the angle on it because it looks liek you. She watches your show alot because shes poorly alot so I know shed really apperciate if you did write back. Me too because ill get an A in english for the term.  
Thanks buddy  
Your good friend,  
Idi Abebe

Hi Zira,  
Thanks so much for your last letter. I took your advice and I’m thrilled to share that it paid off. I got the job! I would have never gone for it without your confidence in me. You really are a life changer.  
All my love as always,  
Lila Shaw.

This man is going to be the death of me.

———

Finally on air. I’ve been awake for hours and it’s only 7:05. It’s like a cosmic joke. I’m sure the bags under my eyes, the miserable expression and black ensemble also looks like a cosmic joke on this set - tea pots and books and quilted blankets. It’s like going to your grandmother’s house and finding out that her new boyfriend is a biker with neck tattoos. 

Not boyfriend, UGH.

The first segment of the day is Breakfast with a Friend, which is basically just him sipping tea and encouraging you to do all the things you need to do that morning to ‘look after yourself’ whilst you eat your breakfast at home. And sure, self care is what lazy people say to get out of putting on pants but actually I do enjoy this segment because sometimes I don’t actually want to put on pants and it’s almost like it’s okay to be reminded that it’s okay to go at my own speed. Not self care though. 

So, we’re just here sipping tea and discussing breakfast. Or at least he’s discussing breakfast at me whilst I try to make out patterns at the bottom of my teacup to gain wisdom from the muses about what hell is yet to come. It’s kind of a cross which I’m sure Anathema will translate into some fresh hell I’m in for. 

“When I’m being a bit naughty” my current hell is saying at the audience, “I like to have my usual slice of whole meal with jam but then round it off with a slice of white and just a lick of honey. What about you Anthony?” 

No one calls me Anthony professionally and I am aghast that he has done so on television. No one can take Anthony seriously, but luckily no one I know is awake right now so I’m probably fine. 

“Hmm?” I ask even though I heard perfectly and it’s definitely not because I’m hoping he’ll say ‘lick of honey’ again. 

“What do you normally indulge in for breakfast?”

I’m certain he’s picking these words just for me, and I honestly don’t know how to beat him at this game. This is MY game, and he’s winning, because I can’t beat him at his game, and I’ve actually forgotten basically everything I know about being seductive and inappropriate and nothing caring what other people think.

“Err, I don’t really eat breakfast” 

“Why ever not?” and it doesn’t surprise me that he’s one of those ‘breakfast is the most important meal of the day’ people. 

“Don’t get a figure like this by eating”

It’s not my best work. I’m too in my head, and what’s worse is that there’s a flash of disappointment on his face. Am I ruining his show? Is that good, or am I being a pawn in the tall man’s plan? Or is the next thing I’m about to say totally to do with something I’m quite happy NOT DWELLING ON. 

“But I suppose… I quite like pears,” 

He’s perked up at that and bloody hell I hate myself for being glad about that. I am a cursed man. 

“Are they?” 

“Yeah. Apples pretend to be all high and mighty, front of the alphabet kind of thing, but actually they’re just the troublemakers of the fruit world. No one cursed humanity by eating a pear, did they? They’re sweeter, easier to eat, and actually I’d like to point out that the alphabet doesn’t even have a proper order, so I say we knock A down to the ELEMENO region and start with a solid PBCD,”

He’s smiling over at me like he’s just thrilled about the shit coming out of my mouth. The audience are too - they’re laughing - not my normal kind of jeering but actually laughing like they agree; like I’m not the enemy. 

“Well, you certainly feel passionately about this,” he says passionately just for me, I know he does.” But for me, nothing beats a fresh glass of crisp apple juice to cleanse the pallet, or a slither of a warm apple pie on the lips,”

Lips. Warm. Pie. Is this a normal conversation to get aroused by?

“So Anthony - you’re a bit of an avid gardener, aren’t you?” he changes the subject so quickly I can’t keep up, knocking into the walls of that moment as it disappears from view.

“Am I?” Not really sure who or what I am at the moment. All I know is that I’m live on television and cannot afford to make an absolute arse of myself by getting flustered by a tea-cosy again. “I wouldn’t so much as I had a green thumb as much as a strict and structured regime my plants must adhere to,” 

“Oh dear, well I hope you’ll humour me. Our garden is a lot less than perfection, and certainly not strict, but we enjoy it all the same,” 

He leads me over to the second stage which houses a little greenhouse set. None of this stuff actually grows here, obviously, but they’ve put a lot of effort into making it truly beautiful. It’s busy and chaotic and exactly the opposite of my own garden, but the vines are climbing up the trellises, imported soil compacts beneath my feet and it smells just like home. 

“Welcome to my little patch of Eden, Anthony” 

“Hiss,” I reply, which gets a laugh. Really starting to be concerned that I might actually be very charming and funny. 

“Quite,” Aziraphale says fondly at me. Bastard. “So today I was wondering if you would arrange some bouquets with me?” 

“Er, well I’m not exactly a bouquet kind of -” 

“Nonsense. Everyone knows what fantastic taste you have, and here at Good Morning, My Dear what do we always say?” 

“I er-”

“Any attempt is the best attempt” the audience recites like a congregation chanting holy verse. 

It’s all so very wholesome, and even though I hate him, I hate this situation, I hate being awake, I hate this audience who seems to be enraptured by this whole thing, I’m actually going along with it. I know a few of the names of flowers, but there’s plenty more I don’t. Aziraphale is next to me, staring at my hands as I pick at different stems - totally winging the whole thing as I do best. 

He’s picked a very pink colour scheme on this one. Roses, tulips, carnations - all of them with soft, open petals as though taunting me. Knowing how much of a bastard he is (something the rest of the world seems utterly blind to) I know this is a test. He smiles and makes little ‘ooh’s when I reach for some violets to mix in with the pinks and reds. He nudges a vase of gardenias towards me when I think I’m done, and without thinking pop a few in.

I’m certain any florists watching will be screaming at their television sets. Here I am butchering the art they study for years to master, judging my decisions based on colour and the tiny reactions emitting from my host. It’s a hot mess, my bouquet - I’m sure there are either too many or too few flowers. I could probably do with more greenery in there, and there’s so much random stuff going on I don’t quite know what to look at first. But I’ll give him something, it was satisfying work.

Aziraphale is jabbering softly, describing what he’s doing with his flowers, and waxing lyrical about the gentle wonders of nature or some bollocks. I’m just trying to keep my tongue inside my mouth and avoid making a total prick of myself so I’m not saying a word.

I reach for the final touch - a ribbon to tie it all together, and as my tealeaves foretold a curse strikes and my hand catches his. I’ve done so well - kept my cool through breakfast talk and bouquet arranging, all the while under his very specific gaze - barely thinking about if this is how everyone feels when he looks at them - barely thinking about how I could get used to this feeling of safety and optimism and enjoyment. But then my hand wraps around his expecting it to be ribbon, and he inhales one sharp breath and that’s enough to do me in - 

“Ngk” 

I’m certain this is what it’s all been leading up to. That would be my play - take the fool who humiliated themselves already, bring them on my show and make them recreate their idiocy in front of my cameras, where my team can zoom, edit and remix their shame into a catch drum and bass song. I’d play it at the start of every show for that week - I’d bring it back with a Christmas version and any other time they were in the news it would be there. I’d sell merchandise and CDs and shoot a music video. I’d never let them forget it. 

But Aziraphale coughs at just the right moment - just a small thing, perfectly timed enough that my tiny moment of idiocy is lost beneath it. 

“After you, Anthony,” he says softly, gesturing for me to grab the ribbon as if absolutely nothing has transpired. I do, knotting a clumsy bow around my stems before declaring it a work of modern art. 

I am an idiot. We all know this. And because I’m an idiot I take that moment to look over at him. He’s wrapping the single most intricate bow around his own bouquet with soft, pale hands. The soft yellow chrysanthemums, the daisies, the carnations: they are quiver next to the art that is his hands fussing over a little ribbon bow. 

“Better luck next time,” I say to him and his perfect bouquet. “You might want to add a few dozen more varieties. Keep it interesting,” 

The audience laughs again, but not in a mocking way. We’re in on the joke together, all of us. And he and I have our own joke here too and I’m not sure anyone else can see it. 

“Splendid,” Aziraphale says in that soft little way I’m coming to expect from him. “Well, perhaps you can come back and give us all a further demonstration another time” 

“Definitely,” my wretched mouth says to him before considering what the hell that actually meant, and that the entire audience and tv cameras can hear me too. Wretched mouth.

“Wonderful,” he prunes happily like the cat who got the cream. “Next up, some of our lucky audience members will be going away with these dashing bouquets and a trip to the South Downs, the lucky ducks. But first, let’s check in with Uriel and the weather!” 

The cameras cut - Uriel, the weather person, starts up across the studio, and the lights dim on us. Aziraphale is smiling at me, and I want badly to smile back, so I glare.

“Don’t look at me like that, Crowley,” he says under his breath as he readjusts his mic pack. It’s an intoxicating sound coming from him, and it takes me right back to the things I’m not bloody dwelling on. Even now I have nothing - no response to say to this mischievous sprite who seems to rear his head only for me. Instead, I just catch myself staring at his lips, which twist from his usual happy curl into something just for me.

“Come along, my dear - we have a show to finish” 

————

When the show wraps Aziraphale allows every member of the audience the chance to come up on stage for a picture and chat. Some of them seem to be regular guests, and others are there for the first time. They’re all giddy and he seems genuinely pleased to meet every single one of them. I don’t care though. I’m getting out of this studio as fast as I can. 

My phone is lighting up with texts - one of which is from Anathema but can definitely wait until I’m far from this place, out of the studio and into a car and back home in my bleak and empty flat just the way I like it. 

I’m out of the door and onto the backlot before I meet anyone who tries to stop me. It’s only then that I really consider how I’m going to get away - have they arranged a car for me? Do I need to talk to someone? Ugh, no. I’ll just hire a taxi or jump on a bus or hitchhike or walk or - 

A black car is sitting in the car park and has just turned the engine on. The door is opening. I’m being kidnapped, I cannot believe it. I should run, probably. Maybe it’s the tall man or a hitman he hired to take me out now that I’m not useful - 

Oh no, it’s just Anathema. She has her iPad tucked underneath her nose as ever and a knowing expression plastered on her face. I consider running again. I’m too lazy and it’s still only 11.30. 

“Well that certainly was an interesting watch” she says, beckoning me into the safety of the car where I intend to hide forever. Or at least for however long it takes to get down the blasted M25 and to the sweet, confines of my bed.

“Shut up. I’m taking a nap,” 

“Sure thing, my dear,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, and this one is quite long!
> 
> Would you believe I wrote the dumb pears are better than apples bit before Apple decided to bother a company for having a pear logo? But there you go - pears truly are superior. 
> 
> Some real talk; this last few months of sharing stories with y'all has been absolutely fantastic and has actually kind of pushed me to do a bit more with my OC writing, and I got some really good news about it yesterday and that is largely due to the amazing feedback you give me. So thank you to everyone who has kudos'd, commented, read and enjoyed my stuff so far. There is plenty more to come!!


	4. I’m not nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley jumps off a cliff.

**Hapaxnym** @hapax . 1h

Sorry, but this episode of #GMMD is actually so darling? 

**SusanSarandonAdoptMePlease** @AlchemyInParchment . 1h

Okay, was anyone going to tell me that @ThatCrowley was hot or was I just supposed to watch his show myself? #GMMD

**Susie Baumarch** @Shadowmanor . 1h

On a scale from 1 - @ThatCrowley how oblivious are you when someone is flirting with you? #GMMD 

**RainaorSunshine** @Raiining . 35m

I’ll give @ThatCrowley something for breakfast if @Aziraphale doesn’t get there first #GMMD

So apparently the show was a success. Fanfuckingtastic. 

I’m sure Anathema is very pleased, and I know that because she spent the entire drive back smugly looking over her iPad at me. I’d say she was probably sexting but that would require her to to talk people that weren’t me, which as we all know, doesn’t happen. 

It’s 1 which means it’s simultaneously my breakfast time, lunch time, and bedtime, so I’m going to gorge on a king size beef pot noodle and fall asleep on my face watching Golden Girls reruns. Maybe I’ll wake up hating myself less one of these days. 

———

Today was not the day. Still a fucking idiot. 

The tweets keep rolling in. This would normally really bump my ego and inflate it to the size it should be (huge) but I just can’t stand to look at them. 

In any case, I have a DM from Aziraphale which y’know... it would be rude to ignore. I’m too tired to be rude.

Aziraphale:

I suppose I should have expected you to disappear the second you could.

Crowley: 

It’s the Irish in me

Aziraphale:

You’re Irish? 

Crowley:

Nope. 

Aziraphale: 

The viewing figures are looking good, so I’m sure the higher ups are happy.

Oh shit. 

Should I tell him?

Seems like I should but is that too friendly? 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

Crowley:

Do your team have access to your Twitter? 

Aziraphale: 

Pardon? 

Crowley: 

Don’t take this as an extension of friendship or anything but are you busy? 

Aziraphale: 

Nope. I’ve just finished my volunteering for the day.

Crowley: 

Of course you fucking have. 

You should come over. 

Aziraphale: 

To your house? 

Crowley: 

Flat. 

Yes. 

————-

This is definitely a mistake. For one thing I hate sharing personal details over something like twitter, although hackers are disappointingly uninterested in unearthing my nudes it just feels like asking for trouble to type out your address on the internet. That’s basically the one thing people told us not to do. For another thing, despite my saying not to this could definitely be seen as an extension of friendship. 

You know those moments when you’re expecting someone to come over, so you just can’t get comfortable in your own house? And how maybe you would feel a bit like wrapping yourself in a blanket burrito and watching some innocuous and definitely not telling morning talk show reruns to pass the time, but to do so would risk the expected visitor walking in on you in such a ridiculous state and maybe their own image on television? 

I wonder which of my books would make me look most edgy and cool? And which spot of the sofa looks most casual and least orchestrated? 

Piss, it doesn’t matter - he’s at the door. 

“Err hi” 

I hate myself. 

“Good afternoon,”

I hate him. Probably. 

“Can I come in?”

Piss.

“Yeah, come on in,” 

To say that he does not suit my living room might be a bit of an understatement. He’s all soft white rounded edges, warmth and beauty. He’s just about the only thing in the room for the light to catch so it looks like he’s glowing, and it’s really fucking weird. 

Plus he’s just staring at me.

Although I guess I’m a bit staring at him to notice all these things but 

NOT DWELLING.

“Tea? Whiskey?” 

“It’s 2pm”

“Whiskey then,”

“Tea will be fine,”

“Suit yourself,” but I’m pouring two cups of tea in a kettle pre-boiled in anticipation. 

And then all of a sudden I’m sat in my living room staring at Aziraphale sipping a cup of tea, and he’s actually staring back which makes a change from the tv screen that’s normally between us when I do this.

It strikes me that this is also the first time we’ve been alone. No cameras. No audiences. Just two people.

Which I hate, because I’m quite certain I don’t properly exist unless I’m performing and I never have to do this with anyone except Anathema, which is probably why I say- 

“‘Sup?” 

Aziraphale laughs. He doesn’t seem nervous, the bastard. He probably doesn’t even consider his work as a performance. Double bastard.

“You asked me here, remember?” 

“Alright, don’t go spreading that around” I take a sip from my tea to avoid talking for a few more seconds.

“Your reputation is safe with me, Anthony,” 

Annoyingly I believe him, which makes me hate him a bit more. 

“Yeah so actually about reputations...” 

I don’t get him? He’s looking up at me as he sips his tea and he just looks fine. Like... not at all that I could be about to give him bad news, or trying to hurt him or whatever. He looks so contented like no one has ever said “we need to talk” and been struck with absolute agony from that. No one should ever be this unconcerned about every single interaction. 

He was just waiting patiently.

“So err... That tall man at your studio...?” 

“Ah, I see you had the pleasure of meeting Gabriel,”

“Yeah well, more of a eavesdrop than a meet to be honest,” 

This did surprise him. The corner of his mouth perked up. I was quite pleased about that, because I’m a self-loathing wanker.

“He’s trying to screw you,”

“Pardon?” 

“Screw you over, I mean. Not - ugh. No. He’s trying to sabotage your show or whatever. Wants you out. That’s why he wanted me on the show I think... to ruin it,” 

But Aziraphale didn’t look surprised. 

“Oh I know,”

“You do?” 

“Of course. They’re not exactly quiet about their plotting,”

“Oh, right,” that’s good then, I suppose.

But now we’re just sat here. No longer are we plotting, colleagues in a way, sat around the war table discussing treachery. We’re just two guys having a cup of tea and I think I’d honestly rather be going to war. In war you have weapons and armour, not tea cups.

“You told me,” his tone is light, but I’ve spent enough time watching him on tv to know when he’s getting at something.

“Huh?”

“Pardon me for saying it, but your ‘brand’ is... well it’s bullshit,” my jaw dropped.

“You can’t swear!” 

“Why ever not?” He laughed.

“You’re... I don’t know. You’re not a swearing person,” for one thing, you’re dressed like the inside of my gran’s sewing box, so the whole thing seems like blasphemy - of course I don’t say this. I can have some tact sometimes. 

“I can be,” the smile he’s shooting is something else entirely. I’ve never seen that on tv. 

Ahem.

“My brand isn’t bullshit,” I change the train of thought back to more important matters, or at least matters I can get my head around more comfortably.

“Oh it completely is. Please, you spend your whole show trying to make your guests uncomfortable but you’ve never gone too far, which is actually very hard to do. You have an entire segment on you reading thirst tweets, but the first time I dare to say anything close to risqué, you clam up on stage in front of thousands of people. I can only imagine what your reaction would be if one of your hunky actor guests did the same thing. You might have a heart attack,”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” but thank fuck I don’t think he heard that.

“And now you’re here. You came on my show and had every opportunity to ruin things. My people wanted you to. I’m certain your people did too. But you didn’t. And now you’re telling me this, with little to no benefit to yourself. Any of that seem particularly on brand to you?” 

It’s one thing to be bad at your job, but it’s another thing to have the nicest person in the country tell you so in the privacy of your own home.

“Well fuck you, I’ll be a bastard then,”

“Go on then...” he cocked an eyebrow in challenge.

“I - “ 

“You have every opportunity. I’m quite at your mercy, if you hadn’t noticed. All it would take is a quick candid shot of me in your home, and a suggestive emoji on Twitter and I’m sure my career would be down the drain. Your show would get plenty of views as a result, everyone’s a winner” 

“Well - “

“But you’re not going to do it, and do you know how I know?”

“I - “

“Because if you were this awful person that you pretended to be on television, you would have done it by now. You would have told the world what I whispered to you on stage and let me be in for a world of trouble. But you’re too nice, Anthony.”

“I am not nice” I say, finally gathering up enough words for a full sentence. This much I knew as a fact. Sure, I may not be as big of a bastard as my brand implied, but I was certainly not nice. Nice is for Lifetime Achievement Award winners. 

“No?” Aziraphale says, and there’s something in his eyes. I’m sure there’s something in my eyes too because his seem to light up when he meets them. “Prove it,” 

There are many times in life where you should question what you’re being asked to do rather than jumping into it without thought - flinging yourself off a cliff for example - now does not seem like one of those times. 

And then I’m kissing him, but it’s not like normal kissing. It’s angry. I’m angry. And he’s angry too. He’s pressing back against me, and simultaneously pulling me closer to him. I’ve got him pinned underneath me, but I feel like I’m the one trapped. I don’t know how I closed the distance so quickly, and I don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as this is done. But this is like scratching an itch you’ve had for a week, and I can’t help the groan that comes out of my throat as his hands slide over me. 

Those words he whispered to me across the stage bang around in my head, and this is my payback. Every interaction we’ve had rolls through my mind like a film reel or a check list - the gifs, the memes, the DMs and the show that morning. I’m enacting my revenge for them all. My whole body is poised for it, seeking vengeance for my humiliation, and his responds in his quiet refusal to be sorry for it. My teeth nip his lip, his nails press into my skin. 

We’re at war now, and we’re both losing. My lips trace the trenches of his jaw, and his body closes the NoMansLand between us until there’s nothing there. It’s desperate, agonising battle, kissing and holding and moaning and - 

The phone rings. 

The moment breaks. My mind comes back to its senses, and my heavy breathing grows even heavier when I take the time to look down at him, the nation’s favourite TV show host, children’s hospital volunteer, and living angel flushed and pinned underneath me, glowing against the black velvet of my couch. Stronger men than I have withered at less.

“I should get that,” 

I scramble off him, taking my time to readjust myself, breathe in as much oxygen as my lungs will allow and trying not to think about how I just jumped off a cliff head first and still haven’t hit the rocks below. 

Everything seems like a good idea when you’ve got the wind in your hair. 

“Er, hi Anathema,” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?”

“You sound weird. Are you sick?” 

“No. I’m fine. What’s up?” 

“Just a heads up - the producers want to catch you before the show tonight, so they want you to come in early,” I’m in too deep with this mess to worry about what the fuck this might be about. 

“Early?” 

“Yeah, that okay?” 

“Erm, yes, sure,”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Certain,”

“I haven’t caught you having some me-time, have I?”

“You have actually,” I say, rushing to get her off the phone.

“Right, well you go finish. I’ll see you later,” 

“I hate you,”

But her hanging up was even worse. It meant that once again we were alone and the rocks were coming so close I could feel the waves crashing on my face. 

I forced my eyes to look up from my phone, which was just about the most difficult thing I have ever done. I don’t know what I was expecting but this wasn’t it. Aziraphale has removed his jacket, and though his cheeks are still pink and his lips red, he looks so much more collected than I feel. He actually looks more relaxed than I think I’ve ever seen him, as if a steamy make out session in the name of rivalry and anger is just the thing that puts him at ease. 

I feel like a bottle rocket about to explode. 

In so many ways. 

“Em, so...” I stutter, standing there with my phone in hand like a stupid garden gnome or Halloween decoration or something. “Should we talk about... all that?”

I don’t know what that talk would even consist of. An agreement to never do that again perhaps? A stern talking to that this would likely mean the end of both of our careers as we know it? My heart is beating entirely too fast and my blood is entirely too electrically charged to think properly, let alone have a talk, but it’s inevitable. The moment has gone, and now it’s time to face the rocks below.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. I wasn’t particularly clear on the point you were trying to make the first time,”

... is he saying... 

“Are you saying...?”

“Yes,” there was no bravado about it. It was an offer, but not a temptation - not a dirty thing. He looked calm still, as if this whole thing was perfectly ordinary and inevitable.

“Well okay, but I really must insist you don’t see this as a sign of friendship or anything. We’re still enemies, alright?” 

“Whatever you say dear,” 

The funny thing about hitting the rocks is that once you do, you can run right to the top of the cliff and throw yourself off once more.

You know... assuming you don’t die.

————-

**DMmeyourdogs** @Wosprig . 3h

@ThatCrowley is wearing a turtleneck, which is ho-code for hiding a hickey.

**BarneyGumble4eva** @AppleSeeds . 3h

Will give the contents of my bank account to know who made @ThatCrowley look like that. I’ll have what he’s having thanks.

**Rebecca is Gay for Taylor Swift** @RestlessResolve . 3h

Guarantee that @ThatCrowley is getting some tonight with the speed he finished the show tonight. Have fun, my man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I wasn’t anticipating that happening. For real, that was not meant to happen in this chapter, but these boys couldn’t help themselves. 
> 
> What’re we gonna do with them?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented, both for your lovely words and contributing the names for my thirst tweeters. Let me know if you’re enjoying the story and if you want to be a thirst tweeter in any further chapters. 
> 
> I’m just gonna go and work out what this does to my story outline now that they’ve gone off the rails. 
> 
> <3 Love always. G.


	5. I am not excited

Twitter is very excited for tonight. 

I am not.

Tonight I am going to live on television, hosting a show where the guest is my rival and antithesis, bane of my career, and general tea cosy. 

Oh and we’re sleeping together and if anyone finds out we’ll both lose our jobs. 

I wonder how quickly I can get access to anti-anxiety medication? I’m a minor television celebrity so you would hope that if anyone can easily attain such substances it would be me. Eh, It would probably take too long to be of any use. Plane tickets on the other hand... 

“Crowley?” 

Anathema is at the door of my dressing room. She’s wearing that knowing look like she can see into the centre of my soul and I might just crack. I swear I have given her (and the rest of the bloody world) zero reason to suspect anything whatsoever but this woman has powers. 

Anyway it only happened once.

Okay, twice. But if it happens in the same day it only counts as once.

Hell.

“Ana,” I try to smile but seeing my expression in the mirror, I just look ill. 

I could call in sick!! 

Great idea, or at least it would be if they weren’t likely to replace me with Ligur, or Famine or... bloody hell, maybe even pull Mary Loquatious off the news and give her the whole show. That’d be just perfect.

Not sick. I’m fine.

“Newt says Aziraphale will be here shortly,” Ana says, eyes as ever on her iPad as if it contains the secrets of the universe. 

“Newt?” 

“Aziraphale’s agent,” she smiles and it’s there again. That something extra hidden in her perfect smile that hints of great evil. 

So fine. She already knows, so we might as well talk about it. Ugh. 

“Ana we need to talk,” her face drops, like a normal person’s face would when they hear that, like a penny, or a ... New Year’s Eve ball?

“Okay, Anthony. I understand - in the spirit of full transparency I guess we should,” she says as if she can’t see through me at all times.

“Yeah, I - “

“You needn’t look so grave. We’ve only been on a few dates, and I didn’t think it would be too much of a conflict of interests,”

Sorry, what?

“Sorry, what?” I ask.

“Newton and myself,” 

“Newton and yourself?”

“Yes, Crowley,”

“Who’s Newton?”

“Aziraphale’s agent,”

“Oh, him again?” She’s definitely counting slowly down from 10 after that one. Oops.

“Yes. We met when you appeared on Aziraphale’s show and I asked him out,” 

“Oh right,” thinking back to her smug little smile during the ride back to London and her weird happy little attitude since, I suppose it does add up. So it’s not about me at all! I’m on the home stretch. She has no idea! If I can fool Anathema (an actual human lie detector) then the rest of the world isn’t going to know a thing. Everything might actually be okay.

“I figure it’s not a problem, since you and Aziraphale are hooking up,”

The witch!

“What? Don’t know what you -” But lying has never really been my greatest skill, and even I don’t believe me. “Okay, fine, but you can’t tell anyone,”

“Crowley, I’m your agent. If you don’t get paid, I don’t get paid,” which is basically the only reason I trust her.

“I always knew you were in this for the money, you avaricious witch,”

“If you can tell me how much you pay me, I’ll take a 20% pay cut,” 

Er. Fine... erm... I can... probably at least .... 

“Fine, keep your money. But I’m keeping my eye on my jewels,”

“You don’t have any jewels,”

“You’ve taken off with them already?” 

“Are you avoiding serious conversations by any chance?” 

Well she’s got me there. 

Ana sits down very gracefully on the sofa. My dressing room is very nice and very cosy, unlike some people’s dressing rooms. The walls are painted black, the best colour, and all the surfaces have been specifically designed for napping, so it’s very nice to sit in. This makes my total inability to sit still even more unfounded, and Anathema looks worried as she’s watching me pace back and forth. And that just makes me pace even more.

“We haven’t really spoken since,” 

“What?” 

“Well, he had to leave early for work so there wasn’t time, and Twitter isn’t exactly the place to have that conversation, so - “ 

Anathema’s phone buzzed.

“They’re here. Want to come and meet them at the gate?” 

Thinking of Aziraphale meeting me at the car door and my stomach is back doing weird things again. I’ve never met a guest at the car door, and regardless of anything else it would look a bit bloody suspicious if I started now. 

“No,” I shook my head. “But er, bring him here first if that’s okay?” 

“Sure thing,”

———

Ana has gone, and I may never stop pacing. I feel sick. This definitely isn’t normal. Surely normal people don’t have one hook up and then feel this bloody weird about it? Dating apps would come with direct lines for ambulances if this was the case. I’m just a fucking idiot.

Of course I’ve had a few days to think on this moment, but I’ve still not got an idea what I’m actually going to say. I could claim it a mistake, but he’d smell the lie on me in a second. I could say that we probably shouldn’t do it again, which is very true but not at all fun for me. 

I might not know how much I pay Anathema but I think she deserves a pay rise because the door just opened without even a knock, which is good because it means there’s less time for prying eyes to see anyone waiting outside my door. Although it does mean that I am now face to face with Aziraphale with little to no warning. 

Apparently my fretting about what to say was completely unnecessary, because my mouth knew exactly what it was doing, and that thing did not include words. I had him pressed against the door in seconds, recreating the session on my sofa with alarming ease. Anyone would think I was a smooth man.

Whilst it’s all quite alarming for me (despite being the instigator of the events), Aziraphale seems to just be going with it, as if he’s used to walking through doors and immediately being accosted. Yeah, let’s not go there. Get your head back in the moment, you utter buffoon. 

————

Once I’d calmed down a little (Aziraphale seemed totally unshaken by all of this no matter how hard I tried to rattle him) we took a breath. 

“Welcome to the show,” 

“Your silly GotchaCam isn’t set up in here is it?” And I’m quite pleased to report that he sounds at least a little breathy.

“I picked this room specifically because it was too far away from the studio for the cables to reach. Yours on the other hand definitely is, so feel free to do something stupid things when you’re in there,”

“Thanks for the warning,” 

I’m still holding him against the door and giving him very little room to deal with, though it doesn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he took quite a bit of joy in dropping a slow but chaste kiss on me before ducking away. Despite the plethora of sinful things we’ve done to each other, that purposeful kiss felt downright pornographic. 

Aziraphale sets himself down on the sofa looking pleased as punch with himself, I can only assume because I look like such a hot mess and still don’t feel settled. 

I want to pace but it feels weird to do that with him here, so I’m just hovering and shifting my weight from one foot to the other. He’s taking in the room though, so I don’t think he’s noticed.

“Your style is very minimalist,” from anyone else that statement would have a judgement to it, either good or bad, but from Aziraphale it’s just a statement. I like that.

“Anything looks minimalist next to your storage container of a dressing room,” I scoff to hide my pleasure at his noticing.

“Just wait until you see my flat,” which is certainly a very tempting offer, and has quite the effect on my nervous system.

But...

“About that...” 

“Are you about to tell me that this was a mistake and that we shouldn’t do it again?” This time there is judgement there, but it’s not what I would have guessed. He looks like he’s about to laugh.

“Err, yeah something like that,”

“Crowley, my dear. I’d be rather more inclined to believe you if you hadn’t pounced on me the moment I walked in the room,” he’s a cocky little thing.

“That’s neither here nor there,”

“I think it is,” he’s smirking at me, the handsome bastard.

“You could lose your job,” I point out to him.

“Very chivalrous,”

“So could I!” And his calm demeanour is really knocking me for six.

“Did you ever stop to consider that life is about more than work, Crowley dear?” He’s got his hands laced, and his chin rests on them as he looks up at me, his soft blue eyes intense as he tries to read me.

And to answer his question, I suppose... 

Well fuck, no I had not considered that. 

I work 6 night a week. I spend my days sleeping off work. My holidays are generally work trips. All of my friends are colleagues... okay all of my friends are Anathema. Everything I do I consider my job, and my brand - and yes part of it is real and actually me but also... what if I wanted to wear a bright yellow handbag and go out to lunch? I’m not saying I do, but I never would because if pictures were taken I’d be that guy with the bright yellow handbag....

“Do you even like it, Crowley?” He adds, softer now. 

“What?” 

“The show. Do you like it?”

“I-“

I don’t think he’s trying to be antagonistic, though any interaction I have with him feels like a battle is being waged. I think he might actually have realised that I’d never though about this before.

I like being famous. Sure, the lack of privacy sucks, and I suppose you could call the inability to make an emotional connection with anyone a ‘problem’ but other than that it’s great. I get paid a lot, and that’s fun. I get to meet lots of celebrities and of course they all hate me but at least they’ve heard of me. I mean, sure you could argue that this isn’t exactly what I wanted to be doing when I went into television, but no one wanted to watch Asking Questions and my viewing figures are great now. 

Fuck, do I even like this? 

“You have a very good habit of digging right to the root of my nerves, you know,” 

“It’s a pleasure,” 

And hell if the way he says pleasure isn’t distracting. 

“I should go. It’ll look suspicious if I’m in here too long,”

“Right,”

“Crowley?” 

“Mmm?”

“You alright?” 

“Yeah, sorry - I’ll just be glad when this is all done,”

Not sure what I mean by ‘this’, but that’s the glory of the English language. It can mean whatever you want it to mean, baby, and right now I want it to be vague as hell so I don’t have to dwell on anything at all.

“Hmm, I’m not getting myself into anything too bad, am I?” 

He’s standing by my door, looking prim and calm, though there’s a definite concern in his voice and his posture and that kicks me right in the teeth.

You see, my answer should be ‘why yes actually, there are going to be spiders and jump scares, and pictures of you as a child, old racist tweets, and several Guess The Nipple rounds, and I’m going to take down your perfect persona piece by piece until no one thinks about my damn humiliation and whatever panel in charge of dishing them out decides to give me your Lifetime Achievement Award and you end up living in disgrace for the rest of your days’. 

The night of the ceremony I had so many wonderful plans for what I would do if I ever got him on my show. None of them included this. Well, actually a few of them did, but I wasn’t dwelling on those at the time, and in any case I never trust rowdy-Crowley. He makes awful choices. 

Instead, my answer is “You’re fine. I’ll make sure of it,” and I meant it.

And my self-loathing rises by four hundred percent. 

———-

I go on in ten minutes. The audience is seated, watching a live cam of Aziraphale’s dressing room, though I’m sure they’re very bored since I’d only gone and warned him about the whole thing before he left. He was sat taking pictures of the Lifetime Achievement Award which of course he brought on the show. Brilliant bastard. 

There’s a knock at my door, which is probably Anathema coming to spend the time in my dressing room eating snacks whilst I’m suffering on stage.

“Yeh,” I say, too lazy to pronounce the a in the word. The door opens, and look at that - not Anathema. 

“Hey,” it was Adam.

“Hey kid, what’s up?” 

He looks nervous, which makes me nervous because he’s probably been sent by the producers to tell me they actually have put a camera in my dressing room and now they have footage of me making out with the stuffy little Christmas ornament as well as a bunch of other very questionable footage... oh god, what have I been doing in here that they could have seen?!

“Out with it,”

“Sorry, it’s just... Wensleydale-“

“Who?”

“One of the interns, sir,”

“Call me Crowley , dear Christ” 

“Alright, Crowley. Well, Wensleydale overheard Hastur and the head of the channel- “ he skips right past the words ‘my dad’ -“planning some bits for tonight. For Mr Fell,” 

This is good news. And bad news. In any case, I need to do another check for cameras in my dressing room.

“I assume those plans didn’t include a bouquet and box of chocolates?”

“Nope,” he shakes his head.

“Right,” bloody hell, when did I start feeling so serious? 

When did I start feeling? Was it when I overheard that tall man plotting against Aziraphale, or was it before then? This is so off-brand.

“Adam,”

“Yeah?” 

“Do they want me out?” I know I shouldn’t take advice from a random kid, especially not a random kid whose dad runs the channel, but if anyone’s going to know it’s him.

“Who?”

“Them, the big dogs, the hell hounds...” 

“I’m not sure, actually. Some of the smaller ... dogs do... The higher ups just want results any which way I think,” he shrugs. 

“You’re a smart kid,” 

“Thanks,” and he perks up at that. Adorable. If I still have a job in a month I’ll buy him a sherbet lemon or something...

“How many interns do we have?” 

“Three,”

“You think you can do me a favour?”

——-

The music plays. The lights come up. The crowd cheers.

I walk on stage, more cheers. 

I can’t even see the crowd. The lights are in my eyes as usual. I barely even see the cameras. Now is the time. 

“Some of you might be following something we call ngkgate” 

Cheer. 

“I can see you’re familiar,” This isn’t right. Stage-Crowley isn’t here. I’m here, and I’m terrible at this kind of thing. He’s never normally late. I honestly can’t think of the last time I was mentally present on stage (except I can and it’s the nightmare that started off this whole shitshow) and I may be a little close to panicking. What would Freddie Mercury say? The show must go on. “Well, tonight we have a special guest for you. Let’s give a big cheer for our good friend, Azi Fell,” 

Ignoring the fact that last time I saw him walk into a place I ended up on top of him within moments is hard. Luckily, not literally. But he does look good - still a bit like a tea cosy, but in that charming way of his. He does a wholesome little wave into the crowd. I roll my eyes for the pleasure of the audience which gets a cheer, but it’s not my usual level of introduction. 

I have no idea where the other guy is. The guy who can stand in front of a crowd and talk. Now I’m just here with this guy I’ve made out with a few times on television and half of me is trying to stop everything going to shit and the other half is wondering why I’m doing that if I evidently hate this so much. 

“Thanks for having me,” he says to me like we’re just chatting on a talk show, which I suppose we are but that’s not the point.

“Well, thanks for coming on. Tea?” 

“Oh, yes please,” 

“You’re a Darjeeling fan I’ve been told?” By you, whilst naked in my bed.

“I’m partial,”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll like this blend,” I try to sound mischievous but I may also sound a little constipated. I definitely feel a bit constipated. The old sphincter has tightened like a slip knot. 

I feel the cameras tightening in as I pass over the drink - it’s in a paper cup like you’d get from Starbucks, which is so suspicious I’m surprised he doesn’t question it. I’m honestly kind of relieved that this prank of Hastur’s is so juvenile - it’ll hopefully mean I’ll be able to see him coming.

Whilst I’m sat here sipping on my water, Aziraphale is about to take a sip of the ‘tea’ and... 

He spits it out back into the cup. 

It takes a lot of self control to not point out how out of character that is for him. 

“Oh, dear gracious me - what is that?” Now don’t get me wrong, some people do enjoy Marmite, but I don’t think anyone would enjoy the taste of hot watery Marmite gravy when they were expecting a delicious Darjeeling, but it was better than the alternative and the interns did their best.

“You’ve been cemented,” I repeat what the voice in my ear tells me to - as if cementing someone is a thing. Very dangerous. Not even well executed. 

“Pardon? Cement? Oh. Oh - that’s... unique,” I watch understanding pass over his face as the puts the cup safely down on the table whilst the audience is still laughing. Bizarre what passes as entertainment these days.

Stage Crowley still hasn’t shown up so it’s just me and Aziraphale out here. I’m trying really hard to be perky but it’s bloody hard when all I actually want to do is point out what bullshit this all is. Aziraphale has broken me with his stupid little ‘do you even like it’ crap. Wanker.

Oh, I can use this anger. Let’s do this, you sexy little mothball.... 

————

It went smoother than I had anxiety-dreamed it would, and that was even with Hastur’s surprises. 

Aziraphale played along so well. Where he needed to lie, he did so with surprising ease. When he needed to just take the punch he did that too, and laughed along with everyone else. He took a bite of the bull’s penis rather than declare which of his guests he disliked the most. He kissed the old lady in the audience who declared herself his biggest fan. He even did his own post-break monologue in which he offered to let me borrow the Lifetime Achievement Award for instagram pictures (bastard). 

As for Hastur’s plans, Adam and co. were on top of it. The bucket of hair dye dropped from the ceiling was swapped out for some highly concentrated squash - a stroke of genius on their part, and really rather distracting for me watching that coat some off. The very worst question cards from Never Have I Ever disappeared, the actor hired for the jump scare never found his way to stage, and the autocue broke mysteriously. 

Coming into the final break, it looks like we’re running free.

Which is obviously exactly what everyone says before the worst thing happens and their hard work was for nothing.

But not in this case, because I’m untouchable. 

“Welcome back, I am joined by the unbearable anachronism that is Aziraphale Fell, and we’re going to be playing a rather brilliant little game called Would You Rather. Excited?” 

“I’m scared to say yes to that,” he says all earnestly, making the audience chuckle. Stage Crowley has decided to take the night off completely, but at some point this actually became fun. Who knew?

Of course I know why - I may be an emotionally constipated idiot but even I can add two and two together.

It’s the alcohol.

The screen behind us lights up with the graphic for the game. The audience is in uproar - they like this one. 

“So you know how this works? For every question you don’t answer we’ll take £1000 away from our planned donation to your chosen charity,” 

“It’s so much worse when you put it like that,” Aziraphale groans. His cheeks are flushed slightly pink, and he keeps having to push his curls out of his face. And I’m staring.

“Crowley, start the game,” a voice is shouting in my ear. Right then...

“First round!”

The screen pops up with pictures of the Queen and Prince Philip side by side, earning a laugh from the audience.

“Oh, toughy” I laugh.

“And by would you rather, you mean...?” 

“Shag, yes,” the audience cheers. “But you can say make love to, if that suits your sensibilities better,” which I know for a fact it doesn’t. 

“Well, they’re both wonderful options, but I’m going to have to - and I hope this isn’t treason, though I’m sure she’ll understand that it is for charity - I’m going to go for Her Majesty the Queen,”

“That puts your stamp collection in a whole new light,”

“Pardon?”

“Next!” 

The screen swaps again - fun little sound effect and the new options appear; this time it’s the choice between two dares.

“Would you rather read out your most recent text on television right now, or let me send a text to anyone in your phone?”

“And I have to actually do this, yes?”

“Or rip £1000 away from the hands of the children’s hospital,” he shoots me a very grumpy face.

“Goodness me, I wouldn’t trust you with a yellow pages, never mind my personal contact list. Okay, you may read my most recent text,”

Aziraphale pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it over.

“Is anyone surprised that you have a Nokia?”

“It’s sturdy,” that won him some cheers. 

“Right,” I say opening up his contacts. It does strike me that this is a very odd thing to be doing with the person you’re hooking up with on live television, but we’re not dwelling. Mostly I’m just thankful we’ve never texted. Last thing we need is for me to read out my own sext on telly - not that I would be sending sexts. “Who is Mary?” 

“Oh, lovely lady. I helped to deliver her son a few years ago,”

“Wait, what? You delivered a baby?” 

“I helped. She did all the work. I mostly just kept the donkeys quiet,” he’s saying words that I understand in isolation, but it just sounds like gibberish all together, and he doesn’t look at all entertained by that little story of his.

“Donkeys?” 

“It’s a long story. What does Mary say?” 

“We’re coming back to this donkey story later. Right, Mary says she can see you on telly. Hi Mary! She does know you have your own show right?” 

“Oh yes, she’s just not really a fan,” he says cheerfully. “Hi Mary! I hope you’re well,” 

The phone beeps in my hand. 

“Oh, we‘ be got another one from Mary. She says “oh my goodness, I’m on telly”. That’s nice. Big day for Mary, but rather boring for the rest of us. Next!” 

Aziraphale chose Taylor Swift over Lady Gaga, solving world hunger over women’s rights, and top over bottom (“Like bunkbeds?”) . Behind camera 1 Adam gestures that it’s time to start wrapping up. We’ve just about survived the ordeal. 

“Right, we’ve got time for one more...” 

“I’m not sure I can get through any more of these,” he says hopelessly, though not without humour. I can tell that he’s also glad this whole thing is done. “Alright, one more!” 

The fun little sound effect plays, the screen swipes, the final round appears.

It’s another dare round... 

Oh fuck. 

Fucking Hastur. 

The audience is buzzing, cheering and hollering, because of course they are. 

There’s a voice in my ear but I’m closer to smashing the earpiece under my foot than actually listening to it.

“Crowley, read the damn board,” it’s Hastur. I can see him behind camera, hissing into Adam’s headset. 

One camera of many in fact. Fucking hell.

“Wow, what a choice,” I hate the words I’m saying. I hate myself for reading them. I should walk off. I should let him walk off. Something. “Dare 1: reveal what you whispered to me on the night of the Lifetime Awards. Dare 2: Pucker up,”

The actual slide reads ‘Kiss Crowley’ but fuck if I’m going to stoop low enough to actually say those words out loud. 

The problem is this. If he chooses the whisper he’ll be fired. If he chooses the other thing he’ll look like he’s hiding something AND wants to ... y’know... which is obviously fine but... not... and if he chooses neither then he’s basically screaming to the world that there’s a secret being kept. 

And I can’t do shit all about it. If I breeze past it that implicates us in this secret - all but confirms it. And my whole brand, my whole job is to be this guy - the bastard, so I have to go along with this bullshit. 

I’m short circuiting. Please please please let Aziraphale be as unflappable as ever. 

He’s looking calm, which is something, but I can see in the set of his jaw that he’s stressed about this whole thing. Not that I know his facial expressions. 

“Honestly, I’m just trying to work out which would be most embarrassing for you,” he says breezily, even managing a nervous little chuckle.

I’m honestly going to kill Hastur and hide his body in a bin. 

“Tick tock,” I say loathsomely.

The audience are literally chanting ‘kiss, kiss, kiss’ as if that’s going to sway his decision. 

Hmm...

It won’t sway his decision but it could certainly sway mine.

“If you don’t pick soon I’m going to pick for you,” someone in the audience literally screams.

Aziraphale cottons on.

“Oh one more second -“ Aziraphale implores. 

“Nope, right pucker up - this way I get a bit of fun out of it at least,” 

Finally, the bastard persona has paid off. Aziraphale can’t be seen wanting to do this - much too off-brand, he can’t tell them what he whispered - too off-brand, he can’t be the reason £1000 doesn’t go to charity, way too off-brand. My brand on the other hand... 

The audience cheers and howls. Considering what we were up to two hours ago, this shouldn’t be as awful as it is, but there really is something about being pushed into a corner to make you want to murder your producer. I don’t even have to pretend that I don’t want this - nor does Aziraphale, I can tell. 

The cameras are all pointing at us now, stood up lamely in the middle of my stage, Aziraphale looking uncomfortable and me feeling like murder. So I do the best I can - I accost Aziraphale, do a big dramatic stage kiss with barely more contact than the squishing of lips together. It’s all very high-school-spin-the-bottle, and I’m once again reminded why I hated everyone I went to school with.

I pull away with an overstated ‘mwah’, sounding like a toddler blowing a kiss to grandma, and look cheerfully into the camera with dead eyes “That’s all for tonight! Now fuck off” 

The cameras cut. The audience continues to cheer. I can’t even look at Aziraphale.

Where’s Hastur, that slimey little toad? 

There’s a hand on my arm before I can storm off and whack him. It’s Anathema, of course - considering her paycheque more than my vengeance as ever - but I suppose I should be a little tiny bit thankful for it. I can’t even see Hastur, so I imagine he’s (rightfully) fearful of the wrath coming his way when I next see him. Adam is hovering in his position at Camera 1 looking concerned. 

Anathema sticks her iPad under my nose, and whispers some nonsense about viewing figures and tomorrow’s engagements blah blah. What is interesting is what is written on the iPad.

‘Finish up as normal. We’ll bring him to you’ 

And honestly, I could hug the prophetic little witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time and time again I am blown away by your loveliness. Thank you so much for everyone who has read this far and continues to read (and reread!!!). 
> 
> I tend to write so much more of this when I’m busy, which is good for you I suppose because I’m very busy over the next few months. The 6th instalment is actually already underway which is a little unprecedented for me, but here we go. 
> 
> Hoping you’re all well and wonderful as usual! <3
> 
> G.


	6. I’m Going to Kill Hastur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang deal with the fallout of the show.

In the car on the way back, and quite honestly I’m starting to sympathise with Alice in bloody Wonderland. I’m not quite myself you see, Mr Caterpillar and I’m sure the solution is doing some mushrooms and pissing off the monarchy. 

Actually, we may have already achieved one of those things today and I’m sure the second thing wouldn’t be too hard. 

Anathema is deathly silent beside me and quite honestly I don’t remember what she’s normally like. Is she normally this quiet? I can feel my phone itching in my pocket but I’m certain Twitter is the last place I want to go right now. 

Top of my list is Hastur’s throat. Can I fire him? Is that in my power? Can I fire myself? Is that just quitting or is it more theatrical? Would anyone even care? Would I even care? 

Oh look, I’m already prepping for my next season of Asking Questions before an inevitable downfall in popularity which ends in me appearing on panel TV shows where Jimmy Carr tries to belittle and humiliate me on TV. Good luck, Jimmy, you wanker - I may be desperate to meet Susie Dent but not like this. No sir. 

And I’m home. To think, only a few hours ago I was leaving this place, naively assuming everything would be only terrible.

Anathema is coming up with me, which is a horrible sign. 

Unless she lives next door, which is entirely possible because she does tend to be here quite a lot, but it seems unlikely, especially as she just followed me into my flat. 

“How bad is it?” I ask, eyeing up the bar and wondering what level of tipple this will require. 

“The others will be here soon. No point going over it twice,” she says, which is code for RED ALERT, DRINK ALL THE RUM. 

“Ngk,” I say in true form before grabbing the bottle and ignoring the glasses. No one needs a glass at a time like this.

She was wrong about one thing though - it’s ten whole minutes before there’s a knock at the door and honestly that’s a lot of rum for one man to ingest.

Anathema opens it, which is good because I have decided I want nothing to do with all this, and I’m just going to sit here looking handsome and moody, like a bloke in a romance novel.

Not that this is a romance novel. Mills and Boon hook up at most. H&M, or whatever kind of sexy magazines the lads are reading these days. 

“Hello, Anthony - lovely to meet you,” a posh bloke taking a seat on my sofa says.

“Is it?” 

“Be nice to Newt, Anthony,” Anathema barks from the kitchen. She’s getting everyone drinks. Well, almost everyone. Some of us are fine as we are.

Rum is very nice.

Now I know what you’re thinking, brain: this Newty man on my sofa, Anathema over by the kitchen, and Me, draped languorously like a supermodel and a snake had a baby without a spine, over a chair that cost too much to be as devoid of comfort as it is. But where is our fourth? 

Well he’s actually right in the corner of my eye where I refuse to look.

Because I’m cool and not because I’m... emotions or something.

Shut up.

Newt is muttering something to him, when Anathema appears over his shoulder and he lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees her. What a bloody mess of a man, turned to putty the second he sees - yes, alright fine - pot, meet kettle. But the pot can still judge the kettle - especially considering the amount of time the pot spends judging the pot. It’s only fair.

But just as the kettle is unable to withhold his joy at Anathema’s presence, the rum (and nothing more) is making it difficult for the pot to not look at Aziraphale, so... I suppose it’s fine to just have a quick look?

Stupid bloody pot! What a mistake. 

Unshakable Aziraphale is shaken. He’s twisting the buttons on his coat and staring down at them like they’re the bloody death scene at the end of Titanic. Fantasies of turning Hastur to goo come to the forefront of my mind. 

“Is anyone going to fucking say anything?” I ask very calmly. 

“Calm down, Anthony,” Anathema says completely unwarranted. “First and foremost, are you both okay?” 

Now I’m torn between not saying anything because I’m too cool to say things and not wanting to calm down following Anathema’s very unnecessary comment. The rum is also making the journey from my brain to my mouth a bit harder to navigate so I regretfully say:

“Ye’flump pum”

“Wonderful,” Anathema rolls her eyes at me. “Do you need some water?” 

“S‘please,” and look at that, she already had it ready on her little tray. Wonderful little witch.

“Aziraphale?” She turns to the man in question and so do I, but I’m very confused. Two seconds ago he looked like someone had just told him there was to be a book burning, and now he looks totally normal. What’s going on there?

“Well, it’s certainly not how I envisaged the evening going, but I’m sure worse things have happened,” Aziraphale says, totally normally. 

I squint at him suspiciously. Neither Ana or Newtington seem to notice.

“Good. So, Newt and I have decided that considering the situation it might be worth having a bit of a strategy session,”

“Yes!” He jumps in, apparently just happy to have something to say. Or maybe he’s just thrilled she knows his name. “Obviously, we weren’t intending on it being at 11pm in your flat but let’s make do, shall we?” 

“Welcome,” I gesture very hospitably, spilling water all down my wall. “I’ll clean that up later,” 

I probably won’t. 

“It’s too early to say anything for sure,” Anathema says, holding her iPad tightly under her nose as ever, “but Twitter seems fine,”

“Same from our end,” Newt chips in.

I’m hardly listening though. I’m using my special skills of staring at someone whilst pretending I’m not staring at them to suss out what the hell Aziraphale is up to. He’s sitting all prim and proper, but his eyes look so sad. That is until they meet mine and notice me staring at him, despite all my best pretending. I look away, but I can already feel myself going bloody red, and when I look back at him he’s staring back at Newt suppressing a small smile.

Bleurgh. I suppose that’s better than the sad eyes but why must his amusement be at my expense?

“Did you hear that, Crowley?”

“Hmmm?” 

“It’s fine,” 

“What?”

“A few people Tweeting about the ‘sexual tension’ for sure, but looking at their profiles that’s hardly new,” 

“What - are you sure?” 

Ana hands me her iPad loaded up with my mentions. There’s a lot of them - some tagging Aziraphale too, some just tagging the show. There are some screen caps of Aziraphale pulling silly faces when eating disgusting foods, a slow mo gif of him removing his jacket. Chelsea Peretti even Tweeted that she’s going to sue us for cementing someone without her permission. So all pretty standard stuff. 

**GiveGarytheOscar** @LaskasBasket . 1h

I would donate £1000 to charity for the chance to snog @ThatCrowley. Don’t know what the fuss is about.

**GlennCocoIsMyBoyfriend** @Omensfan . 1h

Need a cold shower after that. Thanks a lot @ThatCrowley and @Aziraphale.

**Prendleton** @AppleSeeds . 1h

Does @ThatCrowley make up these tasks, and if so is this confirmation of #Craziraphale? 

Reply: **BertieBottsEveryFlavouredTransRights** @AlchemyInParchment . 50m

If they were I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t look so uncomfortable at the thought of kissing him. 

Reply: **Halloqueeen** Unashamed_Enthusiast . 30m

Boooo, let a girl dream.

And there it is, the evidence that actually we might be blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

“Well... alright then,” 

“So this brings us to what’s next,”

“What is next?” Aziraphale chimes in. He’s been staring down at his own mentions, and some colour has finally returned to his face. 

“Good question. I think we can all agree that the best thing for everyone is just ending whatever this is,” Anathema says matter-of-factly. 

Erm, excuse you Anathema. I don’t think we can all agree anything of the like. For one thing, I’m not about to be dumped by three people. For another thing, there’s nothing to end and nothing to dump. Maybe that should have been the first thing. Doesn’t matter, they’re both relevant. 

And for a third and very unsubstantial thing, I don’t agree to that at all because if there was something to end (there isn’t) maybe I don’t want to do that (because of purely physical reasons). 

Granted, ten minutes ago I would have vowed to never think of this blip ever again if it meant we could erase the past two hours, but now that everything is fine I honestly don’t see the problem in continuing to make bad choices until it blows up in my face.

Whilst I’m having this breakdown, we’re all playing an eyeball-ping-pong rally. My eyes shoot to Aziraphale. His are on me. Then I look to Anathema. She looks at me. Then she looks at Aziraphale. He returns the look. Then they both look back at me and I look between them starting the whole thing off again.

Newt is twiddling his thumbs quietly in the corner, staring at the statuette on my sideboard. 

“Are there... any other options?” Aziraphale asks. 

If I call the butterflies in my stomach moths is it less pathetic that they’re there when he says stuff like that?

“Well, our other option is to announce it. If we leak the story, we control the story,” 

Oh bloody hell.

“Announce it? You didn’t make me announce it when that Prince and I hooked up last year. In fact, I’m fairly sure I signed NDAs to say I could never announce it, or hint at it, or anything. Announce it, bloody hell, Anathema. You’re off your rocker,”

“Yes, with all due respect, I can’t see that working,” 

“If you keep on like this it’s going to blow up in your faces,” she says it like she knows it for a fact, and I hate that tone of voice because it’s normally followed by her being absolutely bloody right. 

I wish I had the rum back. 

“Blah - look, it’s late and I can’t be bothered with this. No good decision was ever made after midnight -just ask Prince Whatshisname. Can we reconvene?” Ahh yes, playing the ‘sleep on it’ card when I know full well I’m going to be up agonising over this all night. 

“You’re right,” Anathema sighs, letting her agent face melt off into a bit more of a human one. “Neither of you are filming tomorrow. Take the day, and we’ll arrange something for Monday,” 

“Wonderful,” Newt offers, as if he hadn’t spent the whole conversation trying to work out whether he should be frightened or aroused by my selection of art. “Shall we go?”

That was to Aziraphale. I can feel the tone shifting - oh dear, the eye-ball-ping-pong is back - maybe not, it’s just Aziraphale looking between me and Newt. Newt, for all his quirks, seems absolutely bloody oblivious to the fact that he’s just asked Aziraphale if he’ll be staying the night when neither of us has had a chance to think or talk about anything like that yet. 

I could let him go. Probably the safest thing to do, and definitely the most sensible. I’d have time to think, uninterrupted, removed from the source of my temptation and able to truly ponder all the questions like: what am I doing with my life, and what the actual fuck am I actually doing with my life? 

“No,” I find myself saying predictably. “We can talk,” 

Though everyone in the room knows that’s not going to be the main course of events they all nod sagely. 

Anathema looks over at me with her proper agent face, half caring, half disciplined. She’s doing the maths in her head (although, for her I guess it’s just the one math) and working out what the odds are of this being a terrible idea. 

“Rules,” she says, and I suddenly feel like a kid who’s mum has just agreed to a sleepover... which, yeah is kind of weirdly accurate. “You do not leave this flat. Aziraphale, you do not answer the door. When the door is open, you are in the bedroom. Curtains stay shut. No tweeting. No instagram. Newt will tweet from your work phone from your flat tomorrow. No visible marks will be left on either asset. Keep the noise down - we don’t want the neighbours hearing your voice. And don’t do anything stupid without consulting us first. Kapeesh?” 

“So we can do stupid stuff after consulting you?”

“I suppose so,”

“Alright, you can go,” 

“Give me a text with a cactus emoji and we’ll send the car to pick you up and take you home. There’s a stash of spare toothbrushes under his sink. Have fun,” 

And then they were gone.

Aziraphale is resting against my kitchen island, staring at me with a curious look. All of that false fine-ness is gone. In fact, he looks comfortable, which really is a hard look for a baby duckling like him to pull off in an obsidian kitchen. He has a dazzling little twinkle in his eye like the world is his oyster and like he’s not trapped in this flat for however long. 

I can’t help myself smiling at him, a black little pot all warm on the inside. I hate myself, but I’m barely thinking about that; not when this distance between us is so exciting. 

“So,” he says, with that mischief he saves for me. “What stupid stuff should we do next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t quote me on this but I think I may have to add another chapter to my plan that is just filled with what happens after this chapter... 
> 
> Oh well! 
> 
> I hope you’re all well. Anyone else feel like the world is kicking their butt a bit? Same, but let us all rejoice in the small things (like our horny boys). 
> 
> As always thank you SO much for reading and commenting and kudosing etc. I honestly get the biggest little smile on my face every time I get a comment and you’re all so SWEET. Holla in the comments if you want your username to thirst-tweet at our boys (and thanks for everyone who has been name checked so far - and to @ShadowManor for teaching me the word Tuckerized).
> 
> Random question as an aside - where do you engage with the fan community outside of A03? Is tumblr still the one? I just get a few messages from people saying they saw recs in certain places and I’d love to get a big more involved in all that jazz. Any light you can shed would be much appreciated.
> 
> What a long end note. I’m gonna leave that there. 
> 
> Best of love my little ducks.  
> G.


	7. I'm out of my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in Crowley's flat for 24 hours

When people use the phrase ‘out of your mind’ more often than not they say it like it’s a bad thing, as if being totally distant from the part of your brain that over thinks (and over-narrates) absolutely everything is somehow a problem.

No thank you. I mean, obviously I’m back in my own brain now, but what a good time I had without myself. If only I would fuck off more often.

I wasn’t totally gone, of course. I can remember in snatches Aziraphale leaning against my counter, tender little smile of his asking what stupid things we should get up to. I can remember the slow and deliberate way he crossed the space between us and stared into my eyes with such force that I blacked out.

I can remember kissing him. Holding him. Reuniting my body with his and how much it seemed my skin had craved his, so that when his fingers ran across me I burned with electricity and fell to my knees. Sharing breaths with him. The self-assured little smug of his through my rolling eyes. Burning out like a candle and reforming like a phoenix.

I also remember killing my brain every time it resuscitated, lest it should intrude with such annoyances as logic, Christian shame, or a healthy dose of cowardice.

I think it’s morning now. I’ve been expressly banned from opening the curtains, so I can only guess by the sliver of light inching its way up the bed, over his legs and landing on the strip of bare skin on my chest. It’s nice.

Checking my phone and it’s nearly midday, which kinda sucks. I mean, I definitely needed the sleep (and by the looks of it, so did he) but... we don’t exactly have all the time in the world. 

Twitter seems fine - thought I’d double check just in case. I’m sure Anathema would be here well before midday if anything were to the contrary but always good to know. She has distractions of her own these days. 

Aziraphale has Tweeted...

Oh, no - false alarm. Just Newt from Aziraphale’s phone. Posted at 9am, a picture of him all prim and proper reading a book that doesn’t even look like it’s written in English and eating breakfast. Can he speak other languages? Do I know anything about him?

Well, I sort of do. Maybe not the Wikipedia entry but the internet doesn’t get him like this. In the picture every golden curl is where it’s meant to be, but next to me they pan out like constellations of golden stars. Spread over my pillow, tucked under his ear, and one dusting his cheekbone. Everyone knows his smile, but I wonder how many people know what he looks like when he would much rather tell you to bugger off.

My stomach growls, nearly waking him from his stupor. 

Breakfast. Right. So maybe I’m Googling what he likes for breakfast, but whatever. If the public eye is going to cause this many problems for me it might as well have one perk. 

Crepes. 

Of bloody course. Is that even a breakfast? Surely crepes are a dessert? According to this forum post his particular favourite is “the ones from his favourite French creperie! I took my family there when we were on holiday and they’re SOOOOOoooOO good”. 

Well, I don’t have a French creperie, but I do have access to online delivery services.

———

The fact that the neon-pink ice cream and crepe ‘restaurant’ isn’t open yet is proof that crepes are dessert and I will be telling him exactly that as soon as he wakes up. Sadly, this also means that I have to make my own crepes. By some miracle (Anathema) it seems I actually have food in my kitchen, including everything the internet tells me I’ll need for crepes... even strawberries and Nutella which just seems suspicious if you ask me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a total dunce in the kitchen, but food has always been a bit more of a necessity than a pleasure. It just takes so much time out of your day. Three times a day I’m expected to decide what to eat, source the ingredients, make the thing, CHEW the thing, and then digest until the circle starts again. It’s a wonder that humans have ever achieved anything. Anyway, these crepes are going terribly. I think they’re meant to be this runny, but the recipe doesn’t say anything about making sure you have lots of lumps in there. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale says from the bedroom doorway and I jump out of my skin. 

He’s wearing some of my pjs and I can feel all the evil melting out of my body and being replaced with the lovehearteyes emoji guy.

UGH.

“Crepes are not a breakfast food, just so you know,” 

Confusion, understanding, and warmth cross his face in quick succession and I’m sure to memorize how each one looks on him. He’s coming over, and gesturing for me to hand him the whisk which I don’t realise I’ve been flailing like a madman, spraying flour and milk across my kitchen.

“How about you make us the coffee, and I’ll make the dessert?” 

I’d never thought of brunch as an excuse to cover strawberries in chocolate, but I must admit, I’m here for it. It’s well past midday when, quite satisfied, Aziraphale offers to do the washing up. I told him not to, but considering the mess we made of the table… and kitchen… and lounge, he insisted. 

“We have one day together undisturbed and this is how you want to spend it? Doing mundane tasks like old people waiting to die?” I argued when he started stacking plates in the sink.

“All the more reason to do it,” he replied, whatever the fuck that means.

And, alright maybe there’s a difference between cleaning up and cleaning up with someone you like spending time with. Like eating, and working and breathing – all very functional things to do until they’re part of a moment. 

Once the flat is clean, Aziraphale jumps in the shower. I’m just sitting in my curtained off lounge feeling like the world might have actually stopped outside and it wouldn’t be on my list of priorities. It’s almost tempting to just close my eyes and nap… but…  
BUZZ.

Aziraphale’s phone is ringing. Of course he doesn’t take it into the shower with him. What’s the point in having a shower-proof phone if you’re not going to use it? What’s he even doing in there? Maybe I should go and check. 

\--------

Well, what an afternoon. I’m at the point now where I really feel as if I have absolutely no control over my own life, and I can’t be bothered to react to things. 

Of course, checking on Aziraphale’s shower was a perfectly wonderful idea, that was then preceded by another very necessary shower. Just as I was attending to my skincare routine, happy as a snake under a sunlamp, I hear a knock. 

Tentative, quiet. Considering the open door policy we’ve been enacting so far today, I was a little confused. 

“Anthony?” 

“Yes?” 

“Something’s happened,” 

This was my first instance of not reacting at all to something rather major. Of bloody course something had happened. If anything I was relieved that it finally had – let me reap the consequences of 24 hours of happiness, before I get used to it. 

“What’s up?” I emerge from the bathroom in a plume of steam, and gold eye masks beneath my eyes. I felt rather glamorous, truth be told. 

But then I saw him, and I started to think that maybe it wouldn’t be me reaping those consequences after all. 

He was perched on the side of the bed, which he’d made, staring down at his hands. Except, he wasn’t staring at his hands, he was staring at the phone inside them.

TWITTER.

“What’s up?” I asked again, more urgently. Curse the world for not giving me the necessary moments to admire that he was wearing one of my t-shirts, and that he looked absolutely smoking hot in black.

“OFCOM received some complaints,” he said, eyes wide.

I laughed.

“Of course they did. If I don’t get at least 100 it hasn’t been a successful show! Haven’t been cancelled yet”

“I have,”

“Excuse me?” 

“That was Newt. My producers said ‘my external behaviours reflected negatively on the image of the brand’, and as such they were letting me go,”

“Excuse me?”

“My show is cancelled,” 

“Are they thick?” 

“What?”

“Your show is the best thing on television. You help people. People love your show. You won a bloody lifetime achievement award! And they can just fire you like that?”

“You think my show is the best thing on television?” his eye twinkled in that way of his.

“I - did I say that?” I did. “Well, I – are you okay?” 

“I don’t know,” he didn’t look totally okay. In fact, he fell back against the bed and lay there talking to the ceiling. “I’ve known they’ve wanted me out for a while now, and I’m sure I can do some good elsewhere but… I was proud of that show,” 

I’m quiet. I didn’t know what to say. How would I feel if I just got randomly fired because my producers were total pricks? I mean, it could happen at any minute, but it hasn’t… yet. Still, don’t really know what to do. He probably just wants to be alone.

“Do you want me to text Anathema a cactus?” 

“What?”

“They’ll send a car,” 

“Why would I want that?” 

“To be alone?”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“No,”

“Right then, stop suggesting such stupid things,” he sat up. He really does look dashing in black. 

“What does this mean?” for us, remained unsaid but my heartbeat is throbbing in my ears, and I’m not even sure what that means.

“Do you know… I don’t have a clue,” he said lightly, and I felt that maybe it will actually be alright. No need to other think – just see what happens.

“Do you… want a cup of tea?” he lifted his eyes to mine, and for a moment he was still. But then he erupted with laughter. “What?” I demanded. 

“If you’d have told me a few months ago that Anthony Crowley was offering me a cup of tea in his bedroom, I’d rather think you were mad,” he smiled coyly.

“Yeah, well – don’t get used to it. It’s a tragedy only kind of service, y’know”

“Well in that case I’ll take you up on the offer… just to say that you did it,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say that my extended absence from this fic has been because I was writing many other things, but we all know that's not the case. 
> 
> Will hopefully get around to the next chapter a bit sooner, but I'm not making promises because that always ends badly. I have other writing I'm procrastinating so that should be a good sign for this fic, but we'll see!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> G.


	8. I’m not in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication issues? These two? It’s more likely than you think.

He’s in talks with the channel. Not that he’s told me that. This is all according to bloody Twitter. Apparently someone saw him go into the building yesterday, and another one today. 

Sure, the missed calls and unanswered texts might have had something to do with it, but first of all, who calls on the phone? And second of all, I’m the reason he lost his dream job and god given calling, so let’s face it, the further away I stay the better. 

It’s fine. One day, that’s we agreed. And my show is going great - everything is bloody tickity boo over here. Funny that - the less thought I put into my work the happier the channel are. I really don’t think the producers would be happy until they can puppeteer my unconscious body for the whole show or make a hologram of me to read their scripts without diverting.

Ach. 

What did I even do before... this whole thing? What do people spend their time doing? Can’t watch his show because it’s not on, and I’m not even sure I want to. I go to work, but I barely do that at the moment. And then I get home, and I sleep and then I’m awake again. 

I should get a dog.

Very hairy, though, dogs. And friendly. People always love to talk to you if you’ve got a dog. Unless of course, you’re the guy pushing your dog around in a pushchair - then people give you a wide berth but I don’t think I’m there just yet. 

Cat maybe. But they’re too independent - it’d probably just go and find another family who would feed it tuna steaks. 

I’d feed it tuna steaks if it asked. 

It’s insulting, that’s what it is. Twitter has just moved on to talking about thirty to fifty wild hogs, and I’m starting to suspect I’m too old to keep up with all this nonsense. Even the diehards are tweeting about some gorgeous twenty something kpop thing, as if I have died and left their hearts void.

Maybe I have died. This is probably what hell is like... or purgatory anyway. 

Snake! I’ll get a snake. They live in cages and just want to eat and sleep and be warm. Perfect. 

——

Spent a while looking at snake ownership. Did you know snakes can escape their cages? 

Octopus’s can escape jars. 

Ach. 

——

BUZZ.

“What?”

“Anthony, it’s 1pm.”

“Yes? It’s my day off.” 

“Well wake up, I’m coming over.” 

———

Knock knock knock.

UGH. Consciousness. What an utter chore. 

“Anthony!” Anathema is yelling from my front door. I drag myself out of my hovel and thank my past self for the foresight of closing the curtains the night before, so the room is dark at least. “Anthony!” 

Knock knock knock.

She really is impatient. 

“Oh, hello,” she smiles as if she hasn’t been battering my door down, and pushes past me. She looks so together, which I’ve decided is not acceptable in my dominion. “Here.” 

She pushes a cup into my hand from my favourite coffee shop on the corner of the road. Smells strong. Lovely. 

“I thought I told you to get up?” 

“I thought I... wouldn’t.” Not exactly the best zinger but it’s early. Relatively.

I plonk myself down on my sofa, only half surprised when I found myself surrounded by several days worth of takeout. It’s too much effort to do anything about it so I just sink into the pile - become the pile and the pile loses its power over you. 

“To what do I owe the honour? Have I been sacked?” 

“What? No. I’m actually in talks of getting you a raise, but that’s not it,” she brushed that aside. “You stink. Go get in the shower.”

“I don’t stink. The pile of old food I am lying in stinks”. 

She didn’t have an answer for that one, so I assume I win. Ha! Her expression is like hell incarnate though. She might actually hit me. When did she get so scary?

“Fine, bloody hell,” I say as I heave myself away from the pile and towards the bathroom.

——

Admittedly, I do feel a bit better after that. Probably helps that when I get back into my living room the piles of rubbish are nowhere to be seen, and the windows are open and letting in some fresh air and sunlight. 

“Feel better?” Anathema asks. She’s sitting with her nose pressed up against that iPad of hers like it’s the holy grail.

“No,” I lie. “Anyway, I was fine before. Just dandy. Nothing wrong over here.”

Luckily, she seems to give me that one even though I can tell by the twitch of her eyebrow that she doesn’t believe a word of it. 

The sofa might actually be comfier with the pile, you know. Maybe I should invest in some? Or cushions... 

“I have some news,” she says in a tone that sends my stomach all the way through my asshole. 

“What the hell, Anathema? I thought you were here to make me feel better - not that I need it or anything - but you just wanted to steal all my beautiful leftovers.”

“If you were planning on eating that pizza crust, we have bigger problems than I thought-“

“So what is it? You’re eloping with that nitwit of yours? Moving to Fiji? Firing me and representing Jimmy Carr instead? Pass me that bottle.” 

The bottle in question is vodka, which I don’t even like, which explains why there’s still any left, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“Come on, out with it,” I push her before taking a swig from the bottle. 

“They want you to host the Oscars.” 

Choking on vodka is quite the experience, and definitely not how they show spit-takes in movies. I feel like some goes into my lungs, I dribble more than erupt, and the whole thing burns until there’s tears in my eyes. Through the whole thing, Anathema’s expression is unaffected - pure uninterested calm.

“Sorry, what?” I stutter, coughing through the pain. “Like... an award?” 

“No, the whole show.” 

I glare over at her to get some hint of joke or irony, but get none. Someone must be lying to her... or high on drugs or something... that’s absolutely the only explanation that makes sense because... what on earth would they want that for?

“Why?” 

“Apparently clips from your show have been super popular in US Markets and they wanted to mix it up. I assume Kimmel was busy,” which, rude. Fair but rude, and if my mind could absorb any of this information I might have said so, but it just makes no sense.

“They want me? Don’t they all hate me?” I’ve made a career out of laughing at those people. 

“There is one little...” and it’s so unlike Anathema to be delicate with something that I know the thing isn’t little at all and the entire idea of me hosting the Oscars is about to fly out of the window with a puff of smoke.

“I will do the whole thing naked, if they want me to.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Then out with it!”

“They want Aziraphale too.” Boy howdy, hearing his name out of the blue like that is worse than the vodka. Ach.

“So we have to fight for it? He’s going to win, surely? They don’t hate him. He’s just so-“

“No, Crowley. They want both of you. Co-hosts.”

“Cohosts? So we’d host it together?” 

“That’s what cohosting is, yes,” 

“And he would be there?”

“Yep.”

“And so would I?”

“This seems to be difficult for you to grasp.”

“Does he want to do it?”

“I’m not sure. Newt is telling him about it today...” 

“I’m sure he’ll be too busy with his new show?” 

“New show?”

“He’s been in talks with the channels.” I try to sound blasé about it but even I can hear the petulant little strop behind my words. 

“No he hasn’t.” She can read me so well. Witch.

“But-“ I begin to formulate a fantastic argument in favour of the ‘yes he is’ camp, whilst also sounding like I don’t actually care and only happened upon this information in a professional capacity, but Anathema rolls her eyes at me, and has the audacity to look disappointed in me.

“How long have you been in this business, Crowley, and yet you are still unable to comprehend that people lie on the internet?”

Well, that hadn’t occurred to me. Granted, my most recent Tweets have been total fibs - “In talks with Elon about flying up to space. Probably going to stay there. So long suckers” and so forth. 

“I’ll call once Newt and I have had the chance to talk things through. But it’s a yes from you, right?”

Is it? I don’t know. It’s the Oscars. There’s no metaphor to compare it to because normally it would be the Oscars of the hosting world, but this is literally the Oscars of the hosting world. Great exposure, etc. But would it shatter everything Aziraphale had built in his career? I don’t mind being poison to my own career, and Anathema seems to be making money out of me so that’s fine but... it’d be like spiking the holy water. 

“I- don’t know”

Anathema looks softer now. Her agent head has flicked off and her friend head is taking over, which I hate because it makes me go soft and that’s the last thing I want right now. She seems to take the hint.

“You have until 5pm to decide.” Then she stands and heads to the door. “Speak later.”

But it’s not Anathema I need to speak to. 

Ach. 

———

**You free?**

Yes. 

**Can I come over?**

Best not. Lots of paparazzi since they announced.

I’ll be over soon. 

——

I definitely don’t deserve the heart skip I get when his reply is so fast, or the sinking gut when he says not to come over. But he’ll be here soon. 

That’s good, right? 

Well... no. But it’s something. 

Why are texts so hard to gauge tone?! He could be very happy to be coming over. He could be utterly enraged that I haven’t responded to his messages or calls. 

Maybe THIS is why people call? 

No point splitting hairs. I’m just glad Anathema made me wash, and cleaned the flat. God knows he doesn’t need to see the number of empty bottles that were lying around the place. 

This is a work chat, that’s all. Two peers discussing the possibility of working together. Best not to focus on the last time we sat on this sofa together, or the table, or the smudges of him that seem to have permeated every surface. 

I feel like one of the Bennett sisters rushing to look like i haven’t just been laying around all day. Should I grab a book, a pile of knitting, a cheque made out to a children’s charity i haven’t yet posted? But this is ridiculous. Never in my life have I felt like I should be... better... I’m fucking fantastic. Stupid stupid stupid.

I’ve actually managed to give myself a headache with all this worrying. 

BUZZ. The bell rings.

Shit.

“Yeah?” 

“It’s me.” I can see that. He’s wearing a cream hoodie, covering his curls, and standing as inconspicuously as a Midas-touched statue beneath the security camera attached to my buzzer. 

I press to let him in. 

How long has it been? Long enough to get the lift. But maybe he’s taking the stairs? Or maybe he’s changed his mind.

Knock. 

“Hi,” I answer before he can get a second knock in. He stands there, first raised, hoodie half covering his face, and an expression that looks the way my stomach feels. “Come in.”

He does, which is a good sign I guess, but he hasn’t said a thing, and he hasn’t smiled, and he’s not acting like himself and - 

“Look, before we talk about anything else I just wanted to apologise.” 

He’s facing away from me. Bloody hell, he can’t even stand to look at me whilst he tells me it was all a terrible mistake and he’s going to forget I ever existed and marry some woman called Jenny or Krista who bakes and does charity work. 

“Silly really,” he continues. “I suppose I always knew this would be something different for you, but I’m not really... very showbiz I suppose. No princes in my bedpost. But you needn’t worry. Everything else will be strictly professional, and will in no way endanger your career.”

“Sorry, what?” 

“If this Oscars job isn’t a good fit for you, we don’t have to do it. And, we can go back to whatever it was before this. Never happened.”

Oh. OH! So he’s worried about... well about the exact same thing I was worried about. 

“You’re so stupid.” As if I hadn’t been thinking the same thing twenty seconds ago. Ah to be momentarily ahead of the game.

“What?” That got his attention, and he turns to face me, absolutely outraged at the assumption that he was stupid. Good.

“How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?” This is a fair point from me, I think. You expect stupid people like me to be stupid, but you really don’t expect the smart and collected ones to be such babies.

“I don’t -“ and he looks really pissed off at that. Good. 

“An utter pillock - don’t know how you manage to tie your own bow tie”

“I’ll have you know-“ he blusters and I’m so thankful that he’s back to being an utter bastard, angry and his worst possible self, that I can’t fight the smile any more. “What are you smiling about?” 

“Nothing. Look, do you want a drink?” I can’t bring myself to mention tea. Can’t dredge up the last cup - abandoned undrunk whilst I finished up in the shower - can’t tell him it’s still there, on my bedside table, taunting me whenever I roll over and wake up. 

“Smells like you’ve started without me” oh yes, the vodka. Marvellous. 

“Yes, well - day off, you know.” 

“I’m fine,” he says and I know he’s thinking about the tea too.

I want him to go back to being mad, but at this point it feels like poking a sleeping dragon.

“Do you want to do it?” I ask instead.

“Pardon me?” He’s flustered. And oh - I see what he thought I meant. But that’s okay. I can deal with flustering other people. That’s familiar ground. 

“The Oscars, angel,” 

The name slips out. Shit, what the hell was that? That’s nothing right? I think he’s wondering the exact same thing, and thank any deity in the sky that he seems to have decided to ignore it. 

“It is the big one.” He says wistfully. 

“Yeah.” 

“But I’m not sure I can.” Ouchy mamma. Why does all this hurt so much? He’s dressed like the ghost of Christmas present in a Christian hip hop reimagining, and yet my chest feels raw, wide open and totally wretched. Is this even about the job? Maybe I’m having a heart attack brought on by the vodka? 

That’s it then. Doesn’t matter if he wants it or not, there’s something holding him back. Can’t force it, and won’t force it. Show wouldn’t be any good if he was on the back foot the whole time. 

“Why did you leave?” 

“Pardon?” 

“You didn’t drink your tea.” 

I want to make a joke about being a terrible barista, but for totally unrelated reasons I find myself utterly incapable to saying a word. 

Aziraphale looks so sad about it, and now I’m mad at myself for bringing it up. 

“You still have everything to lose,” he says finally. “I don’t want you having to shut your curtains and live in the dark on my account.”

Not sure if I should point out that, if it wasn’t for the plants, I would constantly keep the curtains closed and live in perpetual darkness, but I have a feeling it’s about more than curtains. A metaphor, maybe. 

“I think we should say yes,” I find myself saying, much to the surprise of both of us. “Do the show.”

I’m not sure why I certainly feel so sure about it. I don’t even think I want to know. I want to stop thinking all together - this day has been an exercise in overthinking and I’m bored of it. Bored of these four walls, and bored of London and bored of bloody Twitter. 

“How quickly can you pack a bag?” 

———

Anathema calls just as we merge onto the M25, and I can see Aziraphale staring down at his own phone. 

“Newt” he says. 

I accept the call on the hands free. 

“Hi Anthony. You’re not lying in a pile of your own filth again-“

“Lalala, good one. No. Just find, as I always have been - “ I insist. “We’re going to do it - the show” 

“Right, well we haven’t heard back from Aziraphale just yet.”

“Hi Anathema,” he says cheerfully from the passenger seat. 

The silence on the other end is delicious. 

“Hi Aziraphale. So you’re happy with this?” 

“Yes! All good with that.”

“Great! Shall we meet tomorrow to discuss particulars?” Newt suggests on Anathema’s end. 

“Ohh, going to be a bit of a problem with that.” 

“Why?” Anathema sounds as suspicious as she should be. It’s all wonderfully dramatic. 

“We’re not in London.” 

“What?” What joy. It’s so rare to get a reaction from her and this is just a delight. Practically giddy. Although, yep, should probably keep an eye on the road. Miraculously the driver of that Ford Focus managed to swerve out of my way in time. 

“Yes, I’m going to be sick for a bit. Flu probably. Worth bringing in a replacement for the show.” 

“You can’t just decide to be sick, Crowley.”

“Sure I can. Achoo. Really very contagious. Going to quarantine.” 

“Are you going to the cottage?” 

“No.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes, fine.” 

I hear her taking a very very deep breath, and then release it. It takes so long and is entirely odd to experience over the phone. 

“Okay, so I’ll get all of the particulars emailed to you. They’ll want to set up a call at some point, and we’ll have to discuss flights.”

I’m actually very impressed by her ability to adapt to the new information. Really should give her a fruit basket or something. She yaps on more about how we’re going to make it work and what we’re signing up for, but I don’t care enough to listen, and I know she doesn’t expect me to. Aziraphale has taken over responding, and I get to focus on the road, driving over 17mph, the grey overrunning with green.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asks eventually, and I notice that the call has ended.

I’m almost surprised he hasn’t asked before now. I spent ten minutes packing my own bag, dropped him off around the corner from his flat and waited twenty for him to return, then set off out of the city. Not once had he asked what the plan was, and I feel all disgustingly warm at the trust he seems to have. 

“Cottage” is all I say. 

“Any cottage in particular?” 

“Mine,” I reply and suddenly it hits me that I’m taking him off to a quiet cottage in the South Downs and that might be perceived as more than a work trip.

“You have a cottage?” His tone is so calm and now I’m wondering how he rolls with all of the punches thrown at him. I, on the other hand, can’t stop myself sounding angry the less angry I feel.

“Is that so unthinkable?” 

“You just... don’t seem like the cottage kind of person. Always a surprise” he says and then goes back to looking out the window. 

It’s still getting dark early these days, but being out of the city helps. The last glimmer of sun isn’t fighting against the buildings, and settles like a glow on the high hedgerows either side of the road. 

We’re driving through a small village not too far from the cottage, and Aziraphale has perked up in the seat beside me. He’s watching the houses go by - the dog walkers pressing themselves in the small spaces of road that the Bentley can’t reach - the quaint little bakery with empty windows but the promise of fresh bread daily - the pub on the corner with smokers huddled around a small wooden table. 

“I never thought I’d see the appeal of leaving London,” he says out of the blue. “I grew up in a small town and they’d always felt a little oppressive to me.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned growing up. Silly of me to assume that he was created the man he was today, but imagining him as a child sends a cold wash into my stomach. Oppressive? 

“There was a church in the square - of course there was, this is England. It was the only place that felt warm to me. The graveyard was this overgrown mess for as long as I could remember. It’s what got me into gardening actually; trimming away the overgrowth and restoring it to a place of memorial and rest.”

I think this is the longest he’s ever gone on speaking at me, and it half feels like I’m just watching his show. I’ve never seen this version of him, though. I doubt many people have. 

“I was never happier than when tending to that garden.”

“Then what?” I ask softly, scared to break his reverie. We’re driving in totally the wrong direction now, because I didn’t want to pull up to the house and end it. I’ll drive in circles around the whole county if I have to. 

“I found London. I’ve travelled far and wide since, but there’s nothing like London. You’re anonymous - or at least, I was before I got the show. In one street you can taste cultures from every corner of the world, and you never know when you’re going to turn a corner and be faced with a fascinating pub that it turns out Oscar Wilde used to frequent,” he looks to the world outside our windows, dark and serene. “I never did find a garden like the church’s though.” 

I slow the car as we reach the cottage. It’s on the outskirts of a tiny village I never remember the name of, huddled amongst fields and in sight of only a few other houses. When the engine quiets, the silence fills its place. 

I’m acutely aware that I should crack a joke - make a fart noise or something, but looking over at him under the harsh glow of the car’s interior light, I don’t mind sitting in the moment. He looks back at me and I wonder in my heart of hearts how I could have ever thought him my enemy. I notice the blue and grey of his eyes - the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks and the way his mouth twitches into pursed lips as if he’s about to say something. 

He coughs. The moment dies. 

“Is this the place then? It’s very nice.”

“It has its moments. Come on then.”

We grab our bags and head inside. I pay one of the kids in the village to keep everything clean, and she seems to have kept up her end of the bargain. Aziraphale follows me inside, eyes looking every which way. 

“What?” I ask, pretending to be annoyed, but my heart is still caught in the car and I’m barely keeping up with my own thoughts. 

“It’s nice,” he says, and when I shoot him a raised eyebrow he laughs. “No, really it is. It could do with a couple of throw blankets and a dozen cushions in the reading spots-“

“Reading spots?”

“But otherwise, it’s a very lovely little cottage.”

“Alright,” I roll my eyes. “Didn’t realise you were an interior designer. Let’s do the tour and then we can go get some fish and chips.”

His eyes light up at that.

“Oh, fish and chips? Wonderful!”

———

The tour isn’t a long one. I can’t show him the outside because it’s dark, but I point him to the window seat, which he quickly declares is “reading spot number one”. The living room also boasts of a fireplace, a very expensive vintage couch that is so uncomfortable to sit on I never have, and a massive tv. The kitchen is small and cold, with tile floors and concrete walls, and has barely ever been used. He still seems to fuss over the little dining area, and the “baking potential” of the AGA. 

“There’s a bathroom down there, and the library, but up here-“ 

“Pardon, did you say library?” 

“It would be an office but technically I’ve never done a jot of work in there. Though, to be fair, there are also no books in there either. It’s more of a storage facility than anything,” I brush him off, but I can see the brightness in his eyes. This must be how Beast felt. Tale as old as bloody time.

We wind the up staircase, thin and rickety, to the first of the upstairs landings. 

“This is my room,” I point into the primary bedroom, equipped with black out blinds, the best WiFi signal, and four space heaters. “And up here is yours.”

The second upstairs landing is up another few steps and hosts the main bathroom and the spare room. I open the door to the room, and notice that he’s not on the second landing.

“Everything okay?” 

“Yes,” he says with a tone that matches what he’s saying, but eyes that absolutely do not. “My room, wonderful.”

He zones back into the conversation and follows me into the room. I’ve barely touched this room since I moved in - the frilly curtains are still on the wall, the tartan bedspread clashes awfully with the bright floral wallpaper, and there’s a tiny door into an apparent eaves which I have never been brave enough to open. 

“Will this do for the gentleman?” I tease, though his back is still to me and there’s something in the air. 

“Yes, certainly,” he says as he puts his worn leather suitcase at the end of the bed. “Now, there was talk of fish and chips?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone remember when I had control over what happened in this fic? Because I sure don’t. They just wanted a cottage break, and that’s what they took. 
> 
> If I could perform a miracle for each and every one of you who reads and comments and likes this, I would 1000 times over. I have been big time self-doubting stuff the last few weeks but y’all water my crops. 
> 
> Is this going to be only one more chapter? I don’t know. I think there’s probably two chapters left, but maybe they’ll want to visit Hawaii and go skinny dipping with sharks - again, I have no control here. 
> 
> Hoping that you have an incredibly pleasant day, and dream of the thing you love the most. 
> 
> G. X
> 
> P.s. between about 1000 chronic illnesses I have struggled with focusing at all recently, so this hasn’t been edited or spellchecked or anything so please do forgive my laziness.


	9. I’m at the Oscars, baby!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Oscars are upon us, and the show must go on.

**First act -**

The monologue - or duologue - we’ve rehearsed this. It’s perfect. It’s so perfect that it didn’t even sound like we’ve rehearsed it. We know it so well by this point, planned over and over in the garden of the cottage, drafts passed back and forth with red and gold pens scratching out lines, making notes, reworking. It had gone amazingly in tech rehearsals.

So why am I still so bloody nervous? 

It doesn’t help that Aziraphale looks calm as anything. He’s wearing a cream tux with the most wonderful gold detailing, like little wings encircling the cuffs and lapels. He’s stranding quite calmly, staring around the set as everyone else fusses. 

I’m jumping up and down on the balls of my feet - something made much more difficult in these £2000 shoes, but it soothes me. 

“It’s okay. If you fluff it up, just hide behind one of the dancers,” Aziraphale assures him. 

“I’m not a dancer. Why did we add dancers?” 

“People love dancers.”

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to dance!” 

“Well you were against adding the gavotte so I’ll let you take responsibility for... this,” he says, gesturing to my outfit. 

So, granted, reenacting dance scenes from famous movies had felt like a good idea back at my kitchen table and I was just trying to make Aziraphale laugh, but now that I’m dressed as Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction I am starting to question it. 

“My feet are getting cold.”

“You wanted Uma, you have to live with your choices.” 

“And you don’t think the wig is too much?” 

“Darling, stop fretting. You look perfect,” and that’s reassuring. A bit. Not much. 

Except it definitely works. 

On the other side of the stage I can see the LaLaLand dancers waiting in the wings. Our Swayze and Baby are flirting behind them, and behind us are a gaggle of tap dancing chimney sweeps. I’m impressed that we got it to this point, to be honest. If I’d suggested this kind of thing for the show I’d have been told it was stupid and there was no money. 

But this is the Oscars baby. 

The AD hushes everyone, and I can feel the show about to start. The lights are going down ready to come back up again on the stage, and everyone is buzzing with that pre-show feeling. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. 

The opening chords are beginning to play and the lighting guy is working his magic on stage. We’re nearly ready, and I feel like I’m going to barf. 

But then a hand falls on mine. It’s just a soft touch - nothing forceful or grand, but suddenly I can feel myself in my body again. Aziraphale is smiling. 

“Break a leg,” he whispers quite enough that my staring at his lips feels warranted. 

And I’m on stage. 

——

I open the number, alone on stage, in a little black wig, a fitted white shirt, and no shoes, dancing in front of a group of people who likely detest me. But I know Aziraphale is watching from the wings - I know how good this show is that we’ve planned together - so I trust in it, and the second the audience sees me...

They’re applauding. 

Hooping and hollering. I imagine the camera is seeking out Travolta and Uma’s reactions, but they don’t have long before the Mamma Mia dancers have joined me on stage. More cheers - I actually see Meryl nearby and she’s laughing along - and then the thunder claps above us, the lights fall to black, the rain begins to pour. The stage hand rushes an umbrella into my grip, and when the lights are back on, we’re all holding them, as fake Gene Kelly twirls himself around a lamp post. Then the LaLa Land group, the step in time, the time of my life.

And somehow it’s over. Everyone is roaring with applause. Aziraphale has joined me on stage looking like a prince in a Disney movie whilst I look like the loser of a wet t-shirt contest. I can hardly breathe for all the dancing, but we don’t have the chance to speak yet over the reaction. Aziraphale smiles in that way of his, and somehow everyone quietens down. 

“Thank you. And thank you for being here tonight, and for having us as your hosts for the Academy Awards-“ 

———

**The first night**

Why did he look so crestfallen? The room isn’t that bad. 

I mean, it’s cold and there’s definitely a massive spider living in the wardrobe, but he doesn’t know that yet. 

It could be... but that’s stupid. He’s the one that walked out. He’s the one that left the tea. It’s fine. I know why he did it, but that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want this in his life. Tea. This.

And frankly, we have more important things to focus on. 

Like what outfits we’re going to wear, and which celebs we’re going to pick on.

———

**Second act**

As the first awards are being announced, we rush back stage for a costume change. Someone chucks a towel at my head- 

“Oh, Adam,” I roll my eyes. “Cheers” 

He hands me my next outfit, a suit to match Aziraphale’s, those in red and black, and where his has daintily embroidered wings, mine has flames twisting its way around the suit. 

Out on stage there’s a huge cheer. Someone won an award, good for them. 

Aziraphale gets to stay in his suit for now, but he’s beside me all the same. Adam helps to get the tie knotted properly and I’m kind of glad I brought him along. Him and the guys who operate the GotchaCam - it felt like a necessary addition considering the amount of celebrities wandering around doing god knows what - were the only ones we brought over with us. Everyone else is local, which feels weird but kind of freeing. No B buzzing around the audio helps me to focus a little.

“Your dad’s not too pissed we brought you along?” I whisper as he gestures for the hair and makeup guy to fix the mess on top of my head. 

“Him? Nah, don’t think so.”

“You didn’t tell him.” 

“Nope.” 

I can’t even be mad. It’s what I would have done. Hell, it’s what I did do for a week - calling in sick to the show. If they weren’t close to firing me before... 

But it’s the Oscars baby. 

More cheering from the stage. More awards. None for Gretchen Wieners - who is, of course, me. But I can’t even be mad at the whole Lifetime Award debacle. God knows we wouldn’t have been asked to do this if it hadn’t been for the whole rivalry over the past few months... and that’s not even to speak of.... 

Everything else that we have. 

Had. 

Might have. 

I can’t help looking at Aziraphale, looking at me and feeling -

“You’re on stage in two minutes,” the AD tells us and makes Adam shoo us over to the wings. 

Someone is giving a speech about their grandma and the inspiring lesbians of the world (cheers to that) and for a moment it’s just us in the dark. Aziraphale is stood close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck. If I was to turn my head ever so slightly I could .... but no, not now. It’s the Oscars baby, and I need to avoid spending the next twenty four hours of my career looking like an flustered pigeon. Not again! 

———

This next bit is one of my favourites. Aziraphale came up with the whole thing - the devil and the angel on their shoulders, sneaking up behind them and voicing their ‘inner thoughts’. The best part is that everyone is going to assume this was all me, but it wasn’t. None of them know that the angel is just as much of a bastard as the devil, else he wouldn’t be so contrary. 

We pick Meryl first. I’ve never actually met her, but Aziraphale has and is a huge fan. I perch to her left, Aziraphale to her right.

“How lovely of you to remember my role in Mamma Mia in your opening segment,” Aziraphale says brightly. There’s no acting for him. Nor me. 

“Yes,” I add sardonically. I watched Devil Wears Prada three times as research for this... and research only. “I have a Tony and multiple Oscars, but please talk more about the time I was drunk on a Greek island with Colin Firth.” 

Even Meryl laughs, and I must say it’s quite nice to play these games with the guests rather than against them. Aziraphale’s shining blue eyes help with the charm, I’m sure. It worked on me, and my resolve is famously higher than Meryl’s.

Next is Leo, and it’s all too easy. He smells like expensive scotch and floral soap. He plays along the whole time, giving us facial expressions to match, chuckling through it.

“I’m just so happy to be here amongst my friends and colleagues.”

“And this girl who’s name I’ve forgotten beside me.”

“I wish all of our contestants the best of luck.”

“I deserve eight of these things. The system is rigged.” 

“My success is measured in more than awards.” 

“I fought a fucking bear.” 

————

**Second day**

There’s no food in the house, so we’re out for breakfast. A town over has a lovely little cafe, quiet and with good food. I like this area because everyone who lives here is much too old to watch my show, so I barely get recognised as anything other than “that nice looking boy from the city. Yes, the one with the legs.” but I hadn’t counted on Aziraphale’s popularity with the locals. 

They’ve been fussing him for twenty minutes already. Dotty and Lou, the couple who run the cafe, jumped on him the moment he arrived.

“Oh, Dot!” Lou cried. “It’s that lovely boy from telly.” 

“Mr Fell!” Dot doted. 

“Oh, please, do call me Aziraphale,” he insisted. 

“My, if I had any interest in gentlemen at all, Mr Fell, I’d be flirting like no one’s business,” Dotty said, causing Lou to cackle. 

If you ask me the pair of them have been flirting since we stepped in. 

“Thank you, ladies,” Aziraphale says kindly, though I’m sure he notices the glare from my direction. 

I’m not jealous. I’m hungry. They can fawn over him all they want once I have a cup of tea, a stack of pancakes, and my own separate table. 

“What would you like, dear?” He asks me before he’s had the chance to order. I grumble my order to Dotty who only just seems to notice I’m there. 

“Oh, it’s the lovely boy from the city!” 

“Lovely?” Aziraphale mouths with amusement across the table. 

“How do you two know each other then?” 

“Old friends,” Aziraphale says coyly. “Now, I’ll have the number 10 and a pot of tea, please!” 

They scamper off, but that self-satisfied little smile is still on his mouth. 

Stop looking at his mouth. 

“Lovely boy,” he whistles to himself. “Lovely boy from the city,” 

“Oh shut it,” I roll my eyes, but the venom isn’t really there. 

————-

In bed again. Another awkward moment as we parted ways on the stairs. We were having a nice evening, too, sat around the fire coming up with ideas. Aziraphale took notes. I doodled rubber ducks in different outfits. 

We spent the day out grocery shopping too, so he cooked us dinner, and we had some wine, and it was just nice. Quiet, sun streaming in through the windows. My mobile has no service, and the only person with the number to the landline is Anathema so I haven’t had one work call all day. And then he got tired, and we went up to bed and -

“Goodnight, I suppose,” he said with those sad eyes of his. 

Maybe he’s just discovered the spider. But he’d do best just to leave the wardrobe alone. It’s not ours anymore - it belongs to Gary and his family. 

Gary isn’t a very good spider name. 

But maybe it is something more. Maybe he feels the same warmth every time our skin touches, and maybe he is also fighting the urge to press his body against mine, and his lips against mine.

I think I can hear creaking. 

Out on the landing. 

He’s probably just going to the bathroom. 

Nope, definitely coming in this direction. 

.....

Should I call out? 

Oh.

More creaking, and his door falls shut.

Maybe he was just... I don’t know... moving Gary into the hall. 

I can’t tell if I’m in denial or I’m in denial that there’s anything to be in denial about.

———

**Third act**

Aziraphale’s taking the lead on this one. It’s the whole sad list of people who have died, and my brand of acerbic wit doesn’t really blend well with death. Instead, Aziraphale makes a lovely speech, plays the VT, and announces the trees that will be planted in each person’s memory. 

He vetoed all my fart jokes. 

——

**Third day**

He’s quiet at breakfast and doesn’t finish all of his pancakes. I keep wanting to say something, but notice he hasn’t touched his tea. 

“Don’t forget your tea,” I say, and it hangs over everything.

——

He’s spent the whole day in the garden, and he’s barely talking to me. 

Not that he’s ignoring me. He’ll reply if I say something, but Aziraphale isn’t a replying kind of person. He’s the chatter your ear off until you go mad person. The can’t take a hint to shut up person. 

I’m not enjoying the quiet. 

———

Around lunch he finally comes inside.

“We should think about the big finale.” 

So we do, and nothing else is mentioned. 

———

Lying in bed for the third night in a row, and he’s been walking out into the hallway again. This is an old house. There are creaks whenever you move. I’m missing the quiet from before.

Except no I’m not. I’m wishing that the creaking meant something more than what I can only assume is incontinence at this point. 

His door opens again, and that’s it. 

“Right!” I say, throwing the duvet off of me and throwing open my own door. Aziraphale is on the top step of the second landing, less than a metre from me. He looks guilty. “Can you stop creaking around please?” 

“Oh,” he says with those sad eyes of his. “Sorry, of course.” 

And I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy. 

Kicked a puppy and licked all the icing off the cake. 

“It’s fine! It’s just hard to sleep with the noise.” 

“Rightio” and I can tell he’s trying to be chipper, trying to be fine, but I can see right through it. “Goodnight” 

He turns to leave, head into his room for what I can only assume will be the last time this evening, but I can’t let him. 

I reach out, grabbing his hand. It feels warm against mine, and all of the nerve endings in my body go quiet to focus on it.

And his face, his beautiful, bright eyed stare.

“Come to bed with me.” 

It’s dangerous territory. I know that. We have a job to do and we’ve finally drawn the line under what was - even if it’s a very confusing line that neither of us really understands, but this just blurs the line into obscurity. If I’m wrong, if he doesn’t feel this too it’ll be the end of the Oscars. The end of this. I’ll be driving him back to London in the morning and we’ll never speak again. I’ll return to the life I lived a year ago and everything will be absolutely fine. 

But he’s kissing me before I can imagine everything going wrong. He has me pressed against the wall, eager lips pressing against mine, parting mine with his tongue, and hands moving out of hands and engulfing the rest of me into its glow. 

He whispers urgent nothings as I lead us into my bedroom-

“Thank god Crowley. I’ve missed you. I need you. God.” 

———

**Final costume change**

Back in the green room and we’re already dressed in the costume for the finale. Mine is a familiar customised tuxedo that I never thought I’d have the chance to wear again. Aziraphale is wearing a heart-achingly-Aziraphale outfit: a tweed tie, a tweed jacket, a very good look on him even if it does bring back memories of my greatest humiliation. 

“Think we’ve got time for a quickly?” I joke. 

“I like to savour my meals,” is all he says, and fuck if that doesn’t just do it for me. 

An hour tops and we can be back in here. There will be a hundred after parties to pick between, but not after we celebrate alone. 

Knock knock knock. 

It’s Adam.

“Three minutes!” 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Aziraphale says fondly, holding a hand out to me like I’m Keira Knightley in a period film. Hell if I don’t swoon. 

Keep your mind on work. An hour and you never have to think about work again (okay, so maybe Anathema will have something to say about that) but an hour and you can lock each other in whatever hotel room you like and -

Work. 

The wings are quieter now. All of the awards have been done, so there are no people standing around holding envelopes or trophies or whatever. A couple of stage hands are focusing on the stage - some great lifetime achievement award or something ridiculous - and for just a moment I can pretend it’s just us. 

Before I can stop myself I reach over to him and kiss him. I intended on it being a chaste something, brush of the lips on the corner of his mouth, but he catches me and pulls me deeper, closer, tighter against him. To hell if the stagehands see - other than Adam these people are Americans. They don’t care if we’re kissing in the wings like horny theatre kids. So I savour it, savour kissing him at the Oscars. It’s wonderful.

Whatever happening on stage comes to an end and the applause is our cue to head on. We pull away from each other, quicker than I’d like, but not rushed. Aziraphale’s lips are full and red and utterly intoxicating, but I’m sure no one will notice. It’s not like we’re wearing a big sign saying “just been making out” over our heads - we’re just flustered. It’s fine. And my whole aesthetic is ‘ten minutes away from a thorough shag’ so it’s fine. 

We walk out. The applause dies down. It’s almost sad that it’s coming to an end, but I’m tired. It’s late and there’s plenty left of the night left to get lost in. Still, try to take it all in. The most well known faces in the world all hanging (albeit rather drunkenly) on our every word. With Aziraphale beside me this just feels right.

I smile, and notice that people are smiling back. In the audience, Madam Tracey waves up at me, pointing excitedly at her award. Good for her. 

“So, we know that you at home look at the people in this room and see otherworldly beings,” I begin. “Celebrities aren’t like you and I! They don’t get up to the same nonsense that we do...” that makes the room laugh. “Now, for anyone familiar with my show, we have a fantastic little segment that I’d like to explore tonight.”

Some of the audience cotton on and laugh. A few cheers, one of which I believe actually comes from Madam Tracey.

“That’s right - People and Gentlefolk, for one night only I’d like to introduce the Academy Awards does GotchaCam. Let’s see what our heroes have been up to backstage, shall we?” 

Equal parts panic and amusement wash through the crowd, but the lights go dim and the crowd falls quiet.

We roll to VT, and the screens across the room fill with the footage of our cameras. We see a comedian doing two shots right before coming out on stage to present an award. We see the nation’s favourite actor come off stage and help a stage hand pick up some fallen envelopes. We see musical guests warming up in the corridor with a chicken dance. Charming actresses readjusting fancy gowns and fanning themselves with their envelopes. The brother of one of the nominees wandering around hitting on models. 

And they’re eating it up. Every clip warrants a reaction - everyone’s smiling - there’s no storming off or shouting, just laughter and cheers and wolf-whistles. We’ve done it!

Wolf whistles? 

Oh fuck. 

OH FUCK. 

There, projected in 4K to screens across the globe, is a hastily shot peep shot around the curtains of the wings. And in the shot are two people tangled in quite a steamy kiss.

Two people who just happen to be the hosts of the show.

“Er-“ Aziraphale freezes up next to me. People are literally giving us a standing ovation - do they think this is planned? Can we get away with saying it’s all a big joke? Don’t get flustered. Don’t get flustered.

“People and gentlefolk, we have been your hosts, you’ve been a wonderful audience! Make better films next year! Thanks, bye!” 

I don’t know if they bought it. Aziraphale still has the word guilty stamped all over his face, and might as well be stood there with hickeys down his neck and his trousers around his ankles. Still, we’ll just say it was a stunt. 

A very... authentic stunt. 

A very well acted and authentic stunt.

They’re still cheering, even Meryl looks amused in the front row. I grab Aziraphale’s hand for the final bow and he seems to unfreeze. He laughs, shakily, but it’s something. We bow, and I’m not sure if it’s the best idea to pull Aziraphale into a hug, but I want to, and bros hug all the time. It’s fine. 

We did it. Mostly without incident. Mostly without flustering. 

I exaggerate the pats on the back, the way bros hug, and I think we’re safe. The crowd is still applauding and people are starting to get up and head for the exits as Aziraphale whispers something in my ear. 

“Huh?” I ask. “Can’t hear you over the...” 

“I love you,” he says. “I’m in love with you, Crowley. I’ve loved you for the longest time, and... I suppose I’m just happy to be here,” 

He smiles as if it’s no big deal. 

I open my mouth, ready to reply, to say something charming or smart or absolutely anything at all that will be helpful in this situation. 

“Ngk-“ 

Great. Utterly fantastic. Once again, words betray me, and the more I try to say anything, the more I look like a fish out of water. Aziraphale looks hurt, though not surprised which hurts me even more. He looks like he’s about to move off stage, but - 

“Aziraphale, wait,” I say, holding him in place. I don’t care if the cameras are still rolling. I don’t care if Meryl is watching, or Leo, or my producers back home. 

I kiss him. I’m certain this will be a gif in less than an hour, but I kiss him and pull him as close to me as human forms allow, and for the first time in my life I sincerely don’t care about if I have a tv show or if Twitter loves me, or the audiences are nominating me for lifetime achievement awards.

He loves me. This person who makes it his life’s goal to bring joy to the world gets joy from me, an idiot with a talk show (I think). And he loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

And that’s best achievement I think I have. Well, that and the noises I can draw out of him with my tongue, but this feels more substantial than even that, and if they don’t give achievement awards for love then they certainly don’t hand out awards for that....

Unless I’m in the wrong industry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling horny boys, isn’t love just grand? 
> 
> So I think I’ll probably write an epilogue for this, because I need more of their fluff, so let me know if that’s something you would even want to read? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read this and commented - especially those of you commenting on every chapter (looking at you AppleSeedz). 
> 
> I have another fic that I’ve nearly finished so that’ll be up at some point, so if you’re in the mood for more of our boys keep an eye out for that. 
> 
> Also, this might be entirely inaccurate to how the Oscars run, but I’ve never hosted the Oscars, and nor have you (unless you have, in which case please do get in touch about hiring me as a writer because I am about to be unemployed thanks) , so let’s just enjoy the fake Oscars our angels cooked up for us. 
> 
> Another thanks for your love and feedback. Hoping all of you are well and safe and healthy or at least finding solace in some this here fluff. 
> 
> <3 All the best, G.


End file.
